


Fragments

by LuxKen27



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Minor Character Death, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-22
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxKen27/pseuds/LuxKen27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter. An unforgettable attraction. Can new love be born from the fragments of shattered lives?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Time, Another Place

**Author's Note:**

> Series author's notes can be found [here](http://luxken27.dreamwidth.org/tag/%2Aseries:+iy:+fragments).
> 
> Disclaimer: The _Inuyasha_ concept, story, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love.” – Henri B. Stendhal

Miroku glanced down the length of his bar, quirking a brow as he polished the surface of the solid wood. A lone figure sat at the end, nursing a rum and Coke and looking helplessly glum. It was sometime after midnight; he wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, fending off wolfish advances from other patrons between drinks. It was obvious to him, at least, that the lady didn’t want to be bothered – her arms were crossed in front of her as she hunched over the bar, her eyes downcast and her shoulders defensive – but some of his regulars, well, they weren’t exactly the brightest bulbs in the box.

Business was beginning to wane a bit; weeknights just didn’t bring in the dosh of a Friday or Saturday. He refilled a few beers and sent a waitress out with a tray of cocktails, but soon enough found himself polishing glasses and trying not to stare at the curious creature camped at the end of his bar. She was wearing a white, sleeveless dress, one that dipped and curved in all the right places to enhance her trim figure. Her hair was gathered at the nape, sweeping over her back in a long, dark, glossy curtain. Every once in awhile she’d lift a hand to her face, wiping her fingers under her eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice the huge, glittering rock occupying the fourth finger of her left hand.

Not that it was any sort of deterrent.

But beyond the incredibly attractive visage she displayed, he could sense she was hurting inside. He’d seen all kinds during his time manning the bar, and he’d picked up on a sign or two, signaling hurt, betrayal, or desperate straits. Some people drank for the company it brought, some people drank to get drunk, and some people drank to drown their sorrows. 

This woman was firmly in the last camp.

His heart skipped a beat when she signaled for him. He sat down the wet glasses and threw the towel over his shoulder as he sauntered down, debating which expression to plaster on his face, before finally settling on a small, understanding smile as his hands came to rest in front of hers.

“Another, please,” she said, tipping her glass at him.

He lifted a brow, surprised by her request. “You want to talk about it?” he asked, reaching back for his bottle of rum.

“Why, so you can lie to me, too?” came the sarcastic response.

He looked up, startled, taking in her grim expression. Her eyes, rimmed with red, bored into his for a long moment, almost as if daring him to reply.

“I’ve been told I’m a good listener,” he shrugged, looking down, continuing to mix her drink.

He felt her eyes on him, watching him with tacit disinterest. “I came here to be alone,” she muttered in reply.

“Well, you kinda came to the wrong place for that,” he joked, placing her drink in front of her with a flourish. 

She brushed an errant tear away, sniffling slightly, and he inclined his head, trying to catch her gaze. “Look, if someone bothers you, let me know, okay? I’ll have him thrown out.”

She nodded, lifting the drink to her lips. He noted the slight tremor in her hand as she did so, and shook his head. _That’s the last one_ , he told himself. _She’s had enough. I’ll personally put her in a cab home – no way she’d last two seconds in this meat market_.

He was just about to move away when he heard a soft chuckle. “I feel like a failure,” she said suddenly, swirling the straw around her glass.

“Oh?” he intoned, pulling the towel off his shoulder and wiping his hands.

She sniffled again, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her eyes. “Yeah.”

Miroku furrowed his brow as he studied her, trying to puzzle out the meaning behind the statement. She was absolutely beautiful, and obviously well-taken care of, with her creamy skin, clear complexion, and perfectly manicured nails – not to mention, that diamond weighing down her left hand.

“Boyfriend problems?” he mused aloud.

She snorted, her mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “Yeah, you could say that,” she muttered, lifting her hand to look at the glittering rock. “He wants us to get married.”

“And what do you want?” 

Her eyes turned to his, tears pooling in the corners. “I want to stop living this lie,” she choked out. “He pretends everything is perfect…and I can’t stop seeing every way that it’s not.”

Intrigued, Miroku leaned closer. “How do you mean?”

He could see the hesitation in her gaze, the war she fought within herself, over whether or not to divulge her secrets, and silently pleaded with her to continue. He knew all too well what it was like to hold so much inside, to bottle up emotions until the near-breaking point. He also knew that little good could come of it, if she held on and held on and held on until it exploded.

She took a long sip of her drink. “My brother is missing,” she finally said. “I’ve spent the last five years of my life looking for him, and I feel like I’ve failed him because he’s still gone.” She bit her lips, even as her shoulders shook with unbroken sobs. “How can I even contemplate moving on with my life, when I know he’s still out there?”

Miroku gripped the edge of the bar at this revelation; it was just about the last thing he’d ever expected to hear. Before he could formulate a response, she continued, as if the floodgates had been opened.

“It’s utterly destroyed my family,” she sighed. “My parents have faded away into shadows of themselves – they each blame themselves for his disappearance, even though it happened under my watch, not theirs.” She glanced up at him, her gaze slightly unfocused. “So it was up to _me_ , you see, to be the strong one, the brave one, the one who held the family together.”

“That must’ve been tough,” he murmured sympathetically.

“You have no idea.” She shook her head, taking a deep breath in an attempt to control herself. “So when Kuranousuke walked into my life, it was…such a relief.” Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes in spite of her self-control. “Until he decided that the best way to help me was to try to make my life perfect, and normal, and stodgy, and boring.”

She downed the rest of her drink, slamming the glass onto the table. “Give me another one of these,” she said.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Miroku said, grabbing the glass and sweeping it away.

She scowled, raising her fist as if to slam it down as well – before covering her eyes with her free hand as she began to cry in earnest. “I’m so tired of this,” she blubbered. “I’m tired of being the strong one – the brave one – ‘good ol’ Sango, who always has it together’!”

Miroku cast a glance down the bar, silently signaling one of his waitresses to come and take over for him before turning his attention back to the sobbing woman in front of him. “Sango?” he tried, reaching for her fisted hand. “Come on, I think it’s time for you to go home.”

“What home?” she mused as she looked at him. “I walked out on Kuranousuke. He wants me to forget I even had a brother, and how can I do that?”

“Okay,” Miroku relented, walking around the side of bar and coming to stand at her side. “Your parents, maybe? Come on, let’s go outside, I’ll hail you a cab.”

She slipped from her stool as he took her hand. “My parents live in Osaka,” she mumbled, leaning against him heavily as he led the way outside.

They stood on the curb under the flood of a streetlight for a few silent moments. Miroku sighed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they waited. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to escort a drunken patron outside, but something was different this time. He was drawn to her, for some inexplicable reason – sure, she was gorgeous, and that was usually enough to spark his interest; but there was also something more. He barely knew this woman, and yet, it was as if he’d known her his entire life. Sure, she was in a dark place right now, but he could sense her inner strength and resolve. It wasn’t just _anybody_ who could hold a family together after such a trauma.

He should know – he’d had to do it himself when his father died.

 _How strange, to find someone I have this in common with, under circumstances like these_ , he thought to himself.

A jolt of surprise bolted down his spine as he felt her arms encircle his waist. He knew he should pull away – the alarms were going off full-blast in his head – this was a dangerous situation, and she was drunk and remorseful. He was a better man than to take advantage of that, no matter how tempting the invitation.

He sighed, tightening the brace of his arm, allowing her to sink into him for the tiniest moment.

 _How sad, as well_ , he mused. _Another time, another place – this feels just right._

A cab finally came into view, which he easily flagged down. “You have somewhere to go?” he prodded, easing Sango into the backseat.

She nodded, wiping her eyes, digging into her purse for a slip of paper, which she handed to the driver.

Miroku hesitated at the door, giving her one last look. “You’re going to be fine,” he reassured her, unable to resist giving her shoulder an impulsive squeeze.

“You really think so?” she murmured in a defeated tone. “You hardly know me.”

“Indeed,” he relented, straightening up and closing the car’s door. “So what reason would I have to lie?”


	2. The Opposite of Impulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nature is at work. Character and destiny are her handiwork. She gives us love and hate, jealousy and reverence. All that is ours is the power to choose which impulse we shall follow.” – David Seabury

Akiko gave a low whistle. “Wow, I’m jealous,” she sighed. “I wish I could have such a fine-looking shoulder to cry on!”

Sango smiled wanly. “Yeah,” she murmured, turning her attention away from her friend and back to the window. _And I wish I could remember it._ The girls were standing outside a bar, one of a thousand of its kind scattered throughout the city – but there was something different about this one.

 _He_ was here.

This wasn’t the first time she’d been back since that fateful evening, but she’d yet to walk through that door again, to greet this little hole in the wall that she’d happened upon on the night her life had irrevocably changed. Every night since, she’d come here, and every night, she stood at the window, staring in, watching him silently, confused…lonely…doubtful. 

Her memory was hazy, at best; mostly she remembered crying, and hurting, and drinking until she was finally numb…but somewhere in there lurked other fragments: of dark violet eyes, of a quietly understanding tone, of solid warmth and reassurance. It was hard to reconcile those pieces of memory with the man she’d casually observed since – one who had confident control of his bar, who flirted shamelessly with his waitresses, who kept his rowdy patrons in line.

Was this truly the same place, the same man that she’d encountered? Or was it just an illusion?

Akiko grabbed the knob of the door before turning to look over her shoulder. “Well, Sango? Are you coming?”


	3. A Change in Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “He who would search for pearls must dive below.” – John Dryden

He felt it, the moment she passed through the door. It was as if the world spun to a stop all around him, electricity crackling through the air as he lifted his gaze towards the door.

 _She’s back_ , Miroku thought to himself, unable to quite believe his eyes as the woman who had haunted his dreams for the past few weeks drew ever closer to his bar. _And she brought a friend._

He cleared his throat, gracing his jabbering patron with a winning smile before excusing himself from the conversation. He made his way towards the taps, set in the straight center of the bar, keeping one stealthy eye on the advancing pair of women. The friend was leading the way, striding firmly in his direction, while Sango appeared to hang back a few steps, reluctantly allowing herself to be escorted. He couldn’t help the curious smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, wondering what swift change in fortune was about to announce its presence.

“Hello, ladies,” he greeted them, motioning for them to sit at the empty space to his left. “And how are you this fine evening?”

Sango’s friend gave him an appreciative once-over. “Not as fine as you,” she replied with a flirtatious smile, propping one elbow on the polished wood and resting her chin on her fingers.

Miroku chuckled, rewarding the forward flirt with a devastating smile of his own. She was pretty enough, with sparkling green eyes half-hidden under a curtain of dark brown hair. Her slightly upturned nose and pouty lips also paid complement to her heart-shaped face, and she was dressed in the first stare of high fashion. However, for all the show-stopping dazzle of her smile, his eyes drifted back to –and lingered on – the mysterious Sango at her side.

“What can I pour you tonight?” he offered, directing his question at both girls, though his eyes were steady on Sango. She sat rather stiffly, hands buried in her lap, eyes rather troubled and downcast, as if she was uncomfortable – so different from the last time he’d seen her, and yet…not.

“I want something blue,” her friend announced, breaking into Miroku’s thoughts. “And with vodka. Maybe a frosty variation on sex on the beach?”

It was all Miroku could do to keep from rolling his eyes. She was cute, but trying way too hard. “And for the lovely lady Sango?” he prodded, inclining his head to catch her eye. “Your usual?”

Finally, she looked up, surprise lacing her expression, causing his heart to clench as their eyes met. “You remember me?” she breathed.

“I never forget a face,” he confirmed in an easy tone, “or a drink order. Rum and Coke?”

She nodded, her mouth creasing into a small smile.

“One blue lagoon and one rum and Coke, coming up,” he said, turning towards the taps once more. He grabbed two highball glasses from the shelf, filling them both with ice in one sweep of his hand. He then proceeded to build the drinks, simultaneously pouring vodka into one glass and rum into the other. The flirty friend received a shot of blue curaçao liqueur for her desired sapphire color, and he mixed equal parts of soda for Sango’s drink. With one final glance towards the girls, now chatting quietly amongst themselves, he topped off the blue lagoon with a healthy dose of lemonade. _That girl is going to need no helping finding a man, if that’s the company she desires for the evening_ , he mused with a shake of his head. 

He refilled a couple of beers for the regulars before heading back to the girls, settling their drinks before them with a flourish. Sango’s friend gave him another flirtatious look as she took a sip, her eyes falling closed as she tasted the sweet, tropical concoction. “Heavenly,” she pronounced with a blissful sigh.

“Thank you,” he replied, amused, stifling a laugh when he caught sight of Sango’s expression. She was looking at her friend as if she’d grown another head, and that piqued his curiosity. He thought he’d spied them earlier in the evening, standing on the sidewalk, arguing or maybe discussing something. The friend must’ve done quite a bit of pleading to get Sango to come in, considering the fact that she’d been standing outside the establishment every night for the last few weeks alone, staring in with a mournful expression.

A slight pink tinged Sango’s cheeks when she realized he was looking at her again. _Oh yes_ , he thought to himself, _I know you’ve been watching me…making me wonder why you wouldn’t come in and speak to me again. I’m not that scary, am I?_

“Miroku!” one of the waitresses called, “I need two cosmos, a snowball, and a margarita!”

He signaled to her, acknowledging the order, and moved off to make the drinks. The music was growing louder as the evening wore on, a mix of modern rock hits and old school electronica pumping from the stereo system. The place was filling up, just the way he usually liked it, but in spite of it all, he felt himself being pulled back to Sango. His attention never drifted far from her, hyperaware of the way she sat, the way she tilted her head as she laughed disbelievingly at her friend’s antics, the way her fingers drifted over the lip of her glass as she fell silent, deep in thought. 

It was then that he noticed that she wasn’t wearing that huge rock of an engagement ring, and he couldn’t allow that curiosity to go unquenched.

“So your name’s Miroku, is it?” her friend asked when he finally had the chance to drift back down and refresh their drinks. “I’m Akiko.”

“Nice to meet you,” he acknowledged, giving her hand a firm shake before setting an even more diluted cocktail in front of her.

“Not half as nice as it is to meet _you_ ,” she returned, trapping his hand between both of hers. 

Miroku cut his eyes to Sango, quirking a brow when she rolled her eyes. It was painfully obvious Akiko was into him, and it seemed that was bothering Sango. _Maybe I can use this to my advantage_ , Miroku mused, turning his attention back to the preening girl in front of him.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said suddenly, plastering on his most winning smile as he addressed Akiko. “It’s not every day I have the pleasure of such lovely ladies gracing my barside.”

Akiko’s eyes widened momentarily, as if she hadn’t expected him to respond to her flirtations. _As I suspected_ , Miroku noted, watching her expression settle into one of thoughtfulness. _Nobody’s_ that _shallow and oblivious_.

“Well, I’m twenty-two – only a couple of months older than my friend here,” Akiko began, squeezing the increasingly-uncomfortable Sango’s shoulders. “I’ve just graduated from university, and am currently between careers.”

Miroku’s eyes traveled over her well-dressed and impeccably fashionable form. _No doubt you have no need to sully those manicured hands_ , he surmised. _I can sniff out heiresses a mile away. Which makes me wonder…_ He cut a swift glance in Sango’s direction. Last time, she mentioned her parents lived in Osaka – not exactly the hotbed of the financial elite.

“And how did you two meet?” he wondered aloud, lavishing an interested smile on Akiko once more.

“University,” she confirmed. “We’ve been friends for ages, it seems. We do _everything_ together.”

“Oh?”

He allowed the suggestion to hang in the air, feeling no small amount of amusement when the thoughts finally clicked together and Akiko’s face flushed bright red. “Not _everything_ ,” she quickly amended, leaning closer to Miroku. “Look, my friend is taken, but I’m single and definitely looking…if you’re interested.”

“Thanks,” Miroku murmured, his eyes sparkling with mirth, “but I rather have my eye on someone else at the moment.”

“Maybe we should be going,” Sango cut in, grabbing her friend’s elbow and pulling the two of them apart. “It’s getting kinda late.”

Akiko’s smile widened as Miroku lifted Sango’s hand, examining the bare fingers. A spark of electric tension flowed between them – and if looks were anything to go by, she felt that wave of heat just the same as he had, judging by the faint blush of her cheeks.

“Looks like you’ve resolved your problems,” he observed, running his thumb over the smooth skin of her ring finger. “Told ya I was a good listener.”

Her flush deepened. “We’re on an extended break from each other,” she corrected. “It was only a simple disagreement.”

“As I recall…” Miroku’s voice trailed off as his eyes latched onto hers, studying her thoughtfully. “He wanted you to forget you even had a brother, instead of acknowledging he was missing?”

“Indeed,” she said sharply, “and I disagreed.” She averted her eyes, swallowing hard. 

After a moment, her hand fell limp in his. “But it’s nothing we can’t work through,” she added, though it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself of that as much as him.

She withdrew from him, turning her attention to her lap as she foraged for some money, which she lay on the bar before grabbing her friend’s elbow once again. “I really think we should be going,” she repeated.

Akiko hesitated for a moment, shooting Miroku a furtive glance. At the same moment, one of the waitresses shoved a stack of order slips in his face, bringing him back to reality in a heartbeat. He took the papers, laying them out behind the counter in front of him, but looked up again before the girls could complete their escape.

“Wait!” he called, rounding the bar as they headed towards the door. He pushed through the crowds, catching up with them just as they crossed back out onto the sidewalk. “You have somewhere to stay?” It was stupid to sound worried over such a thing – obviously, they had somewhere to stay, some place nice, in fact, if their outfits were anything to go by – but he couldn’t help the feeling gnawing at his gut, the same feeling he’d had last time they found themselves on this very same sidewalk.

Akiko linked arms with Sango. “Oh, do we ever!” she enthused, wiping at the remnants of the blue cocktail that stained the corners of her mouth. “We’re in the Park Suite Rooms, at the Prince Park Tower Hotel.”

Miroku reeled at the revelation, suddenly wondering how two residents of one of the finest hotels in the city came to find themselves at his modest little bar, halfway across town.

Akiko’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment before she spoke again. “Consider yourself as having an open invitation to visit, anytime you please.”

It was his turn to flush at that; of the hundreds of times he’d been propositioned by a pretty woman, few had ever been so bald-faced as that – and in front of another girl, no less!

Another, far more intriguing girl, for that matter…

And suddenly, they were alone, Akiko shooting down the sidewalk to hail a taxi. Sango could only stare at the ground, looking for all intents and purposes to be totally embarrassed by her friend’s erratic behavior. _No doubt this isn’t what she had in mind when she brought her along_ , Miroku surmised.

“Is she always like this?” he asked.

“No,” Sango replied, shaking her head. “Which is why…I can’t figure out…” 

Her voice trailed off as her eyes met his, understanding dawning across her features. She cast a glance down the sidewalk, where Akiko was otherwise occupied, still trying to flag down a cab, before looking back at him. Her gaze was intense as she studied him, something warm and heavy and full of anticipation settling around them. His heart gained traction in his chest as he gazed back; it took every fiber of his being to resist reaching out for her.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” he finally said, tightening his grip on the doorknob instead. “Don’t be a stranger.”

She nodded, slowly; with each movement of her head, hoped eased through his chest. Dare he dream…?

“I’ll let you know…about my brother,” she said softly.

“I’d like that,” he replied. “I hope you find him.”

A horn blared then, shattering the tension that had blossomed between them. “C’mon, Sango!” Akiko waved from the window of the cab. “I don’t want to leave you!”

Miroku nodded, watching as she stepped off the sidewalk and slid into the waiting car. _I don’t want to leave you, either_ , he realized, quite to his surprise.


	4. Tea and Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It is a great piece of skill to know how to guide your luck even while waiting for it.” – Baltasar Gracian

“Will that be all for you, mademoiselle?” The bell hop looked skeptical and concerned as he gazed at her, hovering over the porcelain tray with a matching domed lid.

“Yes,” Sango said, her voice soft but firm. Her lips stretched into some semblance of a patient smile as she reached for the lone teacup, squeezing a few drops from the perfectly carved lemon wedge at its side into the steaming black tea. “Thank you.”

The bell hop bowed, his coat billowing with a slight flourish as he turned and left the room. When the door closed, Sango’s façade fell, her eyes downcast on the tray as her thoughts began to wander.

Some people called it serendipity; others, just dumb luck. All she knew for sure was, it had only taken a split second for her life to take that irrevocable turn, for events to fall into place to lead her where she was today.

The blink of an eye…the beat of a heart…the space of a breath…

…the shattered fragments of a life, never to be made whole again.

The tea was hot as it splashed down the back of her throat, an ironic yet perfect complement to the miserable weather outside. Light but persistent rain pattered against the windowpane, falling from an overcast sky – not dark enough to presume night, but cloudy enough to block out the light. She gazed out the window, sensing the imbalance of the weather…only to find it mirrored the limbo she felt within herself.

It had been rainy _that day_ as well, a cold and miserable winter’s day, like so many others. She and her brother had just arrived home from school. She remembered being annoyed that afternoon, for some reason – Kirara’s indecision about wanting to be in or out, Kohaku whining to be allowed to play outside, in spite of the bad weather, her own schoolwork weighing heavily on her mind…

Whatever the reason, it hadn’t stuck with her through these last five years, but it had been enough to distract her on that day. Finally, she caved into her brother’s pleas, dressing him in his warmest coat and hat, insisting he wear his rain boots, even when he protested, making him swear to stay as close to their front door as was possible. She watched from the comfort of the foyer as he shrieked happily, splashing in the puddles of their walkway, and chasing the curious cat. Her parents wouldn’t be happy, especially if he developed a cold, but she’d always had a soft spot for him, and found it hard to refuse his requests. He was such a gentle, shy child…able to find pleasure in the smallest things…

A solitary tear slipped down her cheek as her memories ebbed on –

– the phone ringing – 

– leaving to answer it – 

– her back turned for only a moment – 

– finding the courtyard empty when she returned – 

– only Kirara, mewing anxiously.

She’d burst through the door, calling out for her brother, ignoring the rain as it pasted her hair to her face. He was nowhere in sight; it was as if he’d vanished into thin air. She went all the way around their apartment complex, growing more and more frantic when she found herself on the street…with still no sign of him.

Her parents had found her later that evening, a kilometer from their building, shivering violently from the rain, her voice strained and hoarse from the incessant calling. They had been remarkably calm about the entire ordeal; only later did she realize that was merely windfall of relief that had befallen them when they found _her_ alive and well. As the days and weeks stretched on, with no word on Kohaku’s whereabouts, the strain began to show. Her once vibrant parents became shadows of themselves, broken pieces of a family that drifted further and further away from each other. 

They each blamed themselves for his disappearance, but she knew – deep down inside – it had been her responsibility.

 _She_ had been the one in charge.

 _She_ had turned her back, letting him out of her sight.

 _She_ was to blame for destroying their family.

Her parents never said as much, but they didn’t have to.

From that moment on, Sango made it her mission to recover her brother, because she knew it was the only way she could ever save her family.

As soon as she graduated from high school, she followed the only viable lead in her brother’s case – the rumors of a child abduction ring, operating out of Tokyo – straight to the capital city. Her pleas for help had caught the ear of the police commissioner, a kindly man with nerves of steel by the name of Takeda. Impressed with her strength, resolve, and passionate belief that her brother was still alive, he assigned an entire squad to the case, taking over the entire investigation from the Osaka detectives. 

And, as taken as Mr. Takeda was by her _case_ , his son was with _her_.

Kuranousuke had been an absolute dream, lending a sympathetic ear – or shoulder – when she’d needed it most. She was new in town, enrolled at the sprawling central campus of the university, and she didn’t know a soul, save for him and his family. He became just what she needed: a quiet, understanding confidant; an anchor in her whirlwind sea; a loyal, devoted lover.

It was amazing, really – could one moment of bad luck truly change a person’s life, for the better?

As the years rolled on, the case grew even colder; any possible leads shriveled away, one by one. Mr. Takeda stubbornly kept the case open, though the active staff dwindled down to two detectives. Sango had never given up hope that her brother could be found alive, and she refused to hear reasoning to the contrary. Stats be damned: her gut told her that he was still out there…waiting…

…wanting her to save him, protect him, just like she always had.

Kuranousuke was gentle by nature, but even his patience had its limits. He wanted to marry her and start a family, to move on with their lives. She’d been overjoyed by his proposal, but as the big day drew nearer and nearer, she found she couldn’t take it. There was no use pretending she was fine, and happy, and well-adjusted, and normal – or whatever it was that future multimillionaire’s wives were. She wasn’t as strong as everyone thought she was, or as together, or ‘with it’. She didn’t know how to move past that moment in her life, when she had turned away and failed in her duty…

…and she didn’t appreciate anyone telling her she should, just _because_.

Because she had her own life to lead.

Because it was up to her, now, to carry on the family line.

Because relentlessly, time marched on.

…because that’s just what people _did_ , when confronted with the actuality of missing relatives long gone.

And so, pushed to the brink, she did the only thing she knew how to – she left, walking away, determined to solve her problems at her own pace, in her own time. 

It was just another stroke of luck that she’d ended up in that bar, with that man, on that night. Maybe the universe realized he was just what she’d needed in that moment, but that still didn’t explain why she couldn’t get him out of her mind. There was something about him that called to her – some glint in his eye, some quirk of his mouth, some hitch in his voice.

He’d known tragedy. 

And he covered it well.

She was drawn to him, and she shouldn’t be; she was promised to another, and couldn’t move beyond the mistakes of her past. And yet…

…and yet…

…she couldn’t stay away. Every night, she left the hotel – Karanouske’s family-owned property – and went down to that little dive, sitting at the end of the bar, trading fleeting glances and small talk with the mysterious Miroku. He asked after her case, and her family, and her background, but she never reciprocated; somehow, it was safer, not knowing the gory details of his past. She’d grown comfortable enough to go alone, without Akiko’s flirty interventions, and, soon enough, found herself relying on those evenings, spent in quiet company.

She made no secret of these little excursions, but Kuranousuke was growing suspicious. She lived in his hotel, but not with _him_. He still loved her, ardently, and wanted to work things out with her.

She’d told him to give her time, to think.

She could only wonder how much longer her luck would hold out…


	5. The Consequences of Privilege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.” – Mark Twain

“We are following up on several promising leads,” one of the police detectives said, bowing his head to express his cautious concern. “We will keep you informed on the matter, as always, Ms. Takeda.”

“Thank you – and please, call me Sango,” Sango replied, attempting to shield the annoyance in her voice at being addressed with her fiancé’s surname. “Also – will you send an update to my parents, as well?”

The detectives exchanged looks as they stood, bending into short bows before gathering their overcoats. “Of course, Ms. Takeda.”

Sango furrowed her brow. “Wait,” she called out, standing herself as her weekly visitors made their way to the door of her hotel room. “What was that look for?”

“What look?” the second detective asked, feigning ignorance behind a polite smile.

Sango frowned. “Don’t play coy with me,” she replied bluntly. “My parents deserved to be appraised of this case just as much as I am – it’s _their son_ you’re looking for, after all.”

A sinking feeling entered her gut as the two exchanged another look. _What is this?_ she wondered to herself. _Don’t tell me I’m the only one who’s been informed about the ongoing investigation lately!_ She didn’t like the meaning implied. These weekly reports, from the two detectives still actively working on her brother’s disappearance, were one of the few shreds of sanity she had to cling onto. These briefs not only bolstered her hope of finding her brother, they strengthened her resolve that he was still alive.

After all, why else would the police work a practically cold case, unless…?

“Ms. Takeda, your parents have asked the Osaka police to contact them only when we know for sure the whereabouts of your brother,” the second detective finally said, a slightly concerned expression marring her otherwise pleasant face.

Sango crossed her arms over her chest. “But you said you’re following up on ‘very promising leads’,” she protested. “They deserve to know – ”

“Good day, Ms. Takeda,” the first detective interrupted, falling into another short bow as he reached for his hat. “If you have any more questions, I suggest you speak to your fiancé,” he added in a low voice.

Sango narrowed her eyes and balled her hands into fists, her irritation growing at his unfailingly polite use of Karanousuke’s name to address her. _He’s not my husband yet_ , she groused silently, granting the two detectives a tense smile as they crossed into the corridor outside her room.

A hand landed on the door just as she was about to close it. “Sango, we need to talk,” followed a smooth, but firm, voice.

“I was just about to say the same,” she mused in response, holding the door open, allowing her estranged partner to enter the room. “The detectives told me they deferred to you in this matter.”

Karanousuke’s brow winkled as he studied her, his eyes running down the length of her body and back before he replied. “I’m only abiding by your wishes, my love.”

“My wishes?” Sango repeated skeptically. “I don’t follow.”

He sighed. “You wish to stay informed on the status of the investigation into your brother’s disappearance,” he explained, his tone overly patient. “And I can make that happen for you. I _have_ made that happen for you, every week for the last three years.”

Sango gave him a long, hard look, his words soaking into her consciousness. The sinking feeling in her stomach twisted into a painful knot. “What are you saying?” she asked, after a moment. “Am I only receiving these weekly meetings because you’re the police commissioner’s son?”

Karanousuke shrugged, reaching out to clasp her hands.

Sango pulled away. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Of course not, Sango. My only wish is to for you to be happy.”

Angst and annoyance churned in her gut; she sensed that he was, indeed, keeping something from her. That was so like him: he tried to protect her, as if she was some fragile flower in need of constant nurture. Maybe she _had_ needed that, in her most vulnerable moment, when she first met him all those years ago, after his father had taken a personal interest in her case…

…but three years had passed since; she had long ago locked that vulnerability behind a stubborn, defensive wall.

“You think I’m happy, knowing my brother is still out there, lost and scared?” she burst out, again crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Well, let me be the first to tell you – I’m not.”

“Indeed,” Karanousuke replied easily, unperturbed by her terse manner. “I imagine that’s why you spend your evenings at some little dive bar in the city?”

Sango clamped her lips shut, her eyes falling to rest on the floor. She examined the space that separated them – it felt much larger than a few feet. Sometimes she wondered if she wasn’t staring back at him from across a gulf the size of a canyon, for all that he appeared to understand her internal unrest.

_So unlike Miroku…_

“I don’t think you should see him anymore, Sango,” Karanousuke murmured softly. “It’s not right.”

“ _It’s not right?_ ” she repeated incredulously. “And what _is_ right, telling your father’s men to lead me on, give me false hope that my brother’s case might actually break sometime soon?”

“We all have a part to play in this life,” he replied, gazing back at her with equal parts determination and serenity. “My role is to shield you as best I know how. You’ve been through so much, and you, more than anyone else I’ve ever known, deserve to have a stable, normal life. Your role is to _be that woman_ , a loving and devoted wife to me, a mother to our children, and a daughter to my family. We took you in, Sango. We love you, and we only want what’s best for you.”

He took a step towards her, reaching to cup her face in his hands. “And what’s best for you is to learn to make peace with your past, and move on with your future.”

Sango could only stand there, her breath ragged in her chest as tears threatened behind her eyes. The differences between this man, who declared to love her, and Miroku – who merely accepted her – had never been quite so stark.

“How can you say that? You know what finding Kohaku means to me, and the preservation of my family.” She drew a deep breath, calling on every reserve of calm she had. “I will not move past this, not without closure.”

His thumbs brushed the sides of her face in gentle strokes; his gaze met hers in thoughtful study. “You want to know the truth?” he asked.

“Yes,” she pleaded, her voice barely hovering above a whisper. 

His hands slipped down to her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. “Will you stop running to him, if I tell you what I know?”

She swallowed past the hard lump that had formed in her throat. He sounded – and looked – like he wanted to cry, which was doing the knot in her stomach no favors. “Just be honest with me,” she urged him.

He nodded, taking a deep breath, his expression clearing of its previous panicky features. “There is a lead in your brother’s case,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply as he pulled her into his arms. “Now please, promise me you won’t go back to that place. Stay with me, where you belong.”


	6. The End of the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes, if you listen really hard, you can almost hear it: the moment your life changes, forever.” – Jude Harrison

“Hey, where’s Miss Rum-and-Coke?” chirped a voice from the vicinity of Miroku’s left ear. He turned to see one of his waitresses giving him a curious look as she balanced a fully loaded tray over her shoulder. “It’s not like her to be _this_ late.”

Miroku shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied, raising his voice to be heard over the blaring music. “Maybe the weather’s keeping her away.”

The waitress gave him a skeptical look. “That hasn’t stopped anyone else,” she replied in a low voice, indicating the packed room in front of them, before brushing past him to move back out onto the floor.

He frowned, turning his attention to the still incoming orders for drinks, hoping the overhead lights were dim enough to camouflage the flush of heat rising up the back of his neck. It was weird to think of Sango as one of the regulars, but if even the waitresses were noticing her absence, in a crowd this large…?

In spite of the raging thunderstorm outside, the place was bustling – nothing unusual for a Friday night. Since opening the doors that afternoon, he’d been elbow-deep in orders, barely having the time to notice that Sango hadn’t yet materialized. She was a creature of habit, generally showing up between eight and eight-thirty, but here it was – almost ten – and there was no sign of her.

It concerned him, but he tried to shrug it off.

Maybe she had something better to do. After all, it was a Friday night…

…she had a fiancé…

…maybe the douchebag had finally found the right words to make up with her…

“Hey, yo, go easy on that glass!” joked the amused voice of one of his patrons, slicing through his reverie. “What did it ever do to you?”

Miroku smiled, releasing the high ball he had unconsciously clenched with a death grip. For a moment, he wondered what bothered him more: that Sango wasn’t there, or that she might have finally taken back that scumbag.

Really, it wasn’t his place to judge; she was free to do whatever she wanted. But he hadn’t spent the last month talking to her, every night, for nothing – the more he learned, the more fascinated he was. She was as intriguing as she was beautiful, and the fragments of her life that she’d shared with him only made him feel more attracted to her. He’d inquired about everything – from her brother, to her education, to her hobbies – and she answered thoughtfully, truthfully, in such a way that he felt like he would never tire of learning about her. Somewhere along the line that had translated into a sense of protectiveness, and the more he heard about this bastard of a fiancé, the more that man unknowingly irritated him.

How could anyone think about changing her, when she was pretty damn amazing already?

“Maybe she’s waiting for her friend,” he speculated aloud, refilling another tray – one that belonged to the same waitress as before – as it landed in front of him.

She studied him, a glittering gleam in her eyes. “Oh, you mean Miss Sex on the Beach?” she asked innocently, capturing his attention and rewarding him with a winning smile. “She’s over there, making nice with your DJ.”

A flash of lightning streaked across the sky, startling patrons closest to the window. Miroku scowled as he caught sight of Akiko across the room, chattering excitedly with the house DJ. The bubbly flirt had steadily worked her way through most of his male staff these last few days, especially once Sango felt comfortable enough around him to leave her to her own devices.

A clap of thunder rattled the building, and Miroku’s heart began to pick up speed. The curiosity was eating away at him; he _had to know_ where Sango was, even if it was painful to hear. Just as he rounded the bar to confront her friend, another streak of lightning crisscrossed the sky, blanching the night white for a mere moment.

Miroku stopped in his tracks, arrested by the sight of a lone figure outside.

A figure he recognized.

 _Sango_.

His world went silent, time slowing to a standstill as she opened the door, absolutely drenched from head to foot. She pushed through the crowd as if moving through mud, her expression deceptively calm, her eyes cold, unblinking.

His feet were rooted to the floor, his heart in his throat as he watched her.

“Sango,” he choked out as she came agonizingly close, “what’s wrong?”

She looked up at him, the mask shattering all at once, and threw shivering arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. 

“It’s my brother,” she whispered between sobs. “He’s dead.”


	7. Finding Beauty in Negative Spaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.” – Henry David Thoreau

She had no sense of time passing; it seemed scarcely a moment had passed since landing in his arms, and now she was being dragged away, hands gripping her shoulders from behind and extracting her from the embrace.

“What happened?!” Akiko cried, her voice unusually shrill to Sango’s ears. The words sounded distant, fading, as if moving through a long tunnel.

Sango appeared to pay her no need, her eyes still focused on Miroku. She was running on sheer adrenaline now, cloaked in a strange sort of aching numbness. Those four horrible words were etched in her mind, taunting her, mocking her – but they wouldn’t come out. She swallowed hard. They were lodged in her throat, choking her.

Akiko’s hands were trembling now, her fingers slick against Sango’s skin, twisting and pulling as her friend turned to Miroku. “What happened?” she tried again. “What did she tell you?”

 _Please, don’t_ , Sango pleaded silently, fresh waves of tears pooling in her eyes. She hadn’t meant to tell even him, but something had shifted within her when she’d spotted him, just standing there – open, beckoning, somehow _knowing_ – and it had all come pouring out: the truth of her brother’s fate; the lies of her current existence.

Time seemed to stand still as their gazes locked, and all she wanted to do was hold him, and be held by him. Instinctively, she knew – no words would be necessary.

That’s why she’d come here, why she’d sought him out.

“It’s not for me to say,” he said, the words a mere murmur to her ears, though in reality, they were nearly shouted over the blast of music and crush of bodies that surrounded them.

Before she realized it, his arm was around her shoulders and they were moving, pushing through the pulsating crowd toward the back of the bar. He was saying something, the words lost but the tone soothing, striking just that right note of comfort. After what felt like hours, they trudged to a halt, and Sango found herself in a small, dimly lit office. Lightning streaked across the sky and rain pelted against the window as her eyes roved around the room, taking stock of her surroundings, instinctively, even as her conscious mind was stuck in neutral.

“I keep some extra clothes in the second drawer,” he was saying, indicating an old bureau lodged in the corner of the room. “I sent your friend for a towel. You can change in here, if you want…so you can have some privacy.”

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes trained to the floor, trying not to feel the absence of warmth as he let her go. Instead, she focused on the heaviness of her wet clothes, the way her hair hung limply over her shoulders, the cold clamminess of her own skin. A deep shiver slid down her back as a roll of thunder boomed nearby, and for the first time all evening, she realized she was soaked to the bone.

Something soft and light landed on her shoulders, accompanied by a reassuring squeeze. “I have to go, but I’ll be back,” he promised. “Just – don’t go anywhere, okay? We should talk about this.”

“Okay,” she murmured, surprised at the gravel in her voice.

And then he was gone again, the door meeting the frame with a firm click…but she wasn’t alone. 

Sango turned, clutching the towel over her shoulders, and looked at her dearest friend in the world. She knew in her mind that this was the person she should be grieving with; they had shared all their secrets for the last three years, celebrating and mourning and everything in between. No one knew her better than Akiko, save her parents.

And yet, just like them – she was the last person Sango wanted to see at that moment.

“Could you give me a minute?” she asked. “Alone?”

Akiko was crestfallen, unable to keep her concern from showing plainly. “I’m worried about you, Sango,” she said. “I’ve never seen you like this. Please, tell me what happened.”

“I will,” Sango promised, wiping her face with a corner of the towel. “In a minute.”

Akiko opened her mouth, as if in protest, but abruptly closed it, sensing the dismissive quality of the command. “Okay.”

Sango turned again, unable to watch her friend leave, waiting until the door latched again before exhaling sharply. Tears splashed down her cheeks, unheeded, unabated; sobs welled and broke from her chest, drowning in the roars of thunder as the storm moved overhead. How long she stood there, she didn’t know; whether she was shivering from cold or anguish (or both…), she wasn’t aware. She cried until she couldn’t cry anymore, until her knees folded beneath her, the pain raw and ravaging and piercing – 

– and then her world was silent again, the only sound meeting her ears that of the rain tapping against the window.

She sat for a moment, leaning on her haunches, her arms curled around her legs, a keen sense of numbness enveloping her at long last. She slowly stood, unfurling her limbs, her gaze never leaving the same spot on the floor. Methodically, she toweled herself off, paying special heed to her hair, drying every single last strand. She slipped out of her shoes, the floor cool beneath her socking feet, and disrobed, her dress sliding around her ankles in a damp pool of ruined silk. As she approached the old bureau, she noticed the mirror propped haphazardly on top of it, leaning back against the wall. _Vanity, thy name is Miroku_ , she mused, the fleeting, silly thought pulling at the corners of her lips.

She rummaged through the middle drawer, finding a nondescript pair of pants and an old t-shirt, just as he’d promised. The clothes were well-worn, but also well-cared for; somehow, even just _holding_ them warmed her on the inside. _This_ was what she was used to – familiar, comforting, worn-to-rags _clothes_ , just like she had at home, in Osaka, before she’d stepped into the glamorous world of her future husband and suddenly had more outfits than she knew what to do with.

She put on the pants first, surprised – and somehow, not – at the way they fit: a size too big, yet still sitting securely on the curve of her hips. For a moment, she just stared down, running her hand over the material, trying to remember the last time she’d worn pants. She always _used_ to wear pants…

…she’d been wearing jeans the day her brother disappeared, and sometimes, could still feel the tug of wet denim against her knees…

She lifted her head abruptly, startled to see the reflection in the mirror. The face and shoulders staring back at her were unrecognizable for a moment: the wide, puffy, red-rimmed eyes, the ashen skin, the stringy hair. Then she saw herself – and the features shifted into a mask: a stoic, if tired, expression, so tightly pronounced and controlled. She swept her hair over one shoulder and combed through it with shaking fingers, all too aware of the last time she’d appeared so disheveled, wanting to banish the memories once more, lest they recall the accompanying pain.

A soft brush of knuckles against wood brought her back to the present; she clutched the shirt to her chest as the door opened slightly. “Sango?”

A flush stole across her cheeks as she fidgeted with the fabric in her hands, gathering it at the hem to pull over her head, but she wasn’t quite fast enough. He’d already stepped back into the room, lips formed into another question – until he caught sight of her bare back.

Or, more likely, the star-shaped scar that bloomed across it.

They always stared, the first time they saw it.

Then they usually turned away in silent horror or disgust, not that she blamed them – it was big and ugly and completely un-ignorable.

But he didn’t turn away.

Miroku hung back wordlessly, but she could feel his eyes tracing the scar, the way the wound cut deep into her flesh, leaving a jagged mark that had never healed properly. 

She shoved her arms through the sleeves of the shirt, but something stilled her motions, compelling her to stop, as if to allow him to take it all in, every hideous inch.

“What happened?” he finally asked, his voice slicing through the heavy silence of the room.

She quickly pulled the shirt over her head, reassured as it fluttered down around her waist, hiding her imperfection from view. “It’s an old knife wound,” she informed him, glancing over her shoulder.

His brow furrowed as he searched for the right words. “On your back?” he inquired, pushing up from his spot against the wall, drawing closer to her.

She turned slightly, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I was following a lead on my brother,” she said simply. “I’d heard a rumor he was in the custody of a yakuza gang, but unfortunately, it was just that – a rumor.” She shrugged. “They lured me into a fight and tried to kidnap me, but when I fought back, they decided to kill me instead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly, as if the words were spoken automatically, thoughtlessly.

“So am I,” she sighed in response. “Sometimes I wish they’d succeeded.” She bit her lip, unable to meet his concerned gaze. “Although never more so than now.”

“You don’t mean that,” he replied, his tone light, airy. He gathered her close, and she felt herself melting into the welcome warmth of his embrace. She closed her eyes as she laid her head upon his shoulder, breathing deeply. The scent of alcohol permeated his clothes, but his skin smelled like fresh rain and soap, and even that mixture took her back – her parents had indulged their vices when Kohaku disappeared; her father drank Japanese beer while her mother preferred to sip sake in the dark. 

She lifted her head, turning inward, unfolding her arms and hugging him back, finding great comfort in the solid wall of his chest against hers, the way it rose and fell in steady rhythm under his breath. His hold on her tightened, just a little, one hand floating up to cup the base of her neck. Warmth flowed from his fingertips, spreading over her shoulder, rising up into the roots of her hair, and she concentrated on the sensation. There were no more tears left to cry, no more angry sobs lodged deep in her core – there was only numbness, and now his warmth, his comfort, his strength.

Time flowed around them unmarked; it was all she could to do hang on to him, to keep her mind from shutting down completely and floating away. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips, and she heard – and felt – his sharp intake of breath; it was only then that she realized how close her mouth was to his. Her eyes slipped shut as she bridged the gap, lifting her chin to kiss him fully. He stiffened momentarily, then relaxed, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, sending tendrils of heat curling though her skin in response.

He eased her mouth open a little more, tilting his head to find the better angle, and she followed his lead, pressing herself closer. It was as if a whole other channel between them had opened; her heart fluttered and her abdomen constricted but she held herself open, receiving, desiring consolation and reassurance even more directly than before. The kiss was slow, cautious, almost embarrassingly virginal, but it wasn’t the way their mouths slanted together that drew her in; no, more than anything, she wanted to crawl inside him, to bury herself in his strength until she recovered her own, to hide from the shattered remains of her own wrecked life.

If she could live in that moment for the rest of her life, she vowed, she would. It was quite perfect…

…until the hand at her waist drifted north, meeting and smothering the scar on her back, bringing her crashing back down to reality.

She pulled away from him tersely, but he wouldn’t let her leave the circle of his arms completely.

“I thought you came here to talk,” he murmured after a moment.

She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to look him in the eye. “Don’t you have to go check on your bar?” she snapped defensively as a hot flame of embarrassment flushed her cheeks. _This is what happens when you lose yourself_ , she silently berated. _You have to stay in control_. Truth be told, she felt a bit horrified that she’d started kissing him in the midst of such grief and tragedy.

He frowned as he regarded her. “It’s 2 am, Sango,” he replied gently, patiently. “One of my waitresses is closing down for me up front –that’s why I came back here, to check on you.”

Sango opened her mouth to respond, only to hear another, frantic series of knocks on the door. She looked over Miroku’s shoulder just in time to see Akiko burst into the room, tears streaking down her cheeks in complement to the wild concern marring her expression.

“God, Sango, please,” she begged, “ _please_ , tell me what happened! I’ve been beating myself up trying to think of explanations, and all I can think of is – ” She choked up, taking the moment to wipe away her tears. “All I can think is, something happened to your brother.”

Sango tightened the brace of her arms, again attempting to leave Miroku’s embrace, but he pulled her close instead, close enough to whisper in her ear: “You can talk to me, or you can talk to her, but either way – you’re not leaving until you talk to one of us about this. You can’t keep this all bottled up inside. It’s enough to break even you, and you know it.”

Sango bit her lips, her resistance rising high, wishing he would just realize why she came here, why she sought him out: words weren’t supposed to be necessary. He understood her. He didn’t judge her. He reminded her of the way she used to be, and she _wanted to be that person_ again.

He released her and turned, placing one arm around her waist as if in support as they faced the shaking Akiko. “Sango?” she tried again. “Talk to me.”

Finally, she relented, realizing there was no other way out. She just wanted this all to be over anyway. “My brother is dead,” she said, preternaturally calm, each word enunciated carefully, perfectly.

“Oh, God, are you sure?!” Akiko gasped, moving closer, arms poised to reach out to her friend.

“I’m sure,” Sango shot back, her fingers digging into her palms as she clenched her fists under her breasts. She heaved a deep, albeit shaky, breath. “They…showed me pictures.” A blur of memory swirled behind her eyes and she turned away, even from Miroku, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking the dark shadows from her mind.

Akiko threw her arms around Sango, not caring that her friend didn’t reciprocate, and hugged her as tightly as she could. “I’m so sorry, Sango,” she whispered. “I’m just…so damn sorry.”

Sango found she couldn’t resist her friend’s sorrow, knowing it to be deep and genuine, even beneath the dramatics. Akiko knew her inside and out, and her visible pain reflected Sango’s own inner anguish. It was almost a relief, to allow her friend to cry these tears for her, to feel the despair and distress on her behalf.

“Is this why you came here?” Miroku asked softly, brushing Sango’s hair from her brow, tilting his head to indicate Akiko’s reaction as she clung to her friend and sobbed.

She nodded slightly, hooking her arms around her friend at long last, acknowledging her reaction and accepting it for what it was. “I feel safe with you,” she said simply in return.

She was surprised to see the small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “See?” he breathed, leaning closer, his mouth on level with her ear. “Those aren’t the words of someone who wishes to die.”

“Dammit, Sango,” Akiko cut in, heedless of the whispered words flowing over her head, “we should probably go home. I mean – fuck, does Karanousuke know?” She straightened, rubbing the corners of her eyes in a vain attempt to stop her tears. “He should know, you know.”

“He knows,” Sango said shortly, drawing a look of surprise from both Akiko and Miroku. Her eyes were steady on her friend as she dredged up the nerve to say the rest. “Who the hell do you think told me?”

Akiko’s jaw dropped, a look of absolute disbelief searing her features. “That prick,” she swore. “How long has he known?”

Sango shrugged. “Long enough to know that telling me would ultimately hurt me,” she intoned bitterly.

Akiko drew herself up to her full height, stomping across the small space to pick up the remnants of Sango’s dress. “That bastard,” she vowed, balling the ruined silk between her fists. She turned back to her friend. “You should give him a piece of your mind!”

Sango shuddered where she should. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Like hell!” Akiko cried. She marched back to her friend, grabbing her hand and attempting to pull her from the spot at which she was rooted. “That’s the _least_ of what he deserves for putting you through this!”

“I agree,” Miroku cut in, drawing both girls’ attention to him, “but maybe right now isn’t the time for it.” He reached out, breaching the grip Akiko held, allowing Sango’s hand to fall back to her side. “I think she should sleep on it, and confront him after she’s gathered her thoughts on the matter.”

Sango looked at him swiftly, taking in his determined expression, shooting him a small, grateful smile in response.

“Come on,” he said, sending Akiko ahead of them out the door before curling his hand over Sango’s shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

~*~

_I’m just fulfilling my promise_ , Miroku told himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he surreptitiously glanced around, taking in his surroundings. _It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve seen a patron home, or to their door, even. This is just me, being a responsible and friendly barkeep._

The elevator chimed, indicating it had reached its final destination, and the elegant double doors opened into the most opulent hallway he’d ever seen. “It’s this way,” murmured the woman at his side, stepping out in front of him and turning left.

Miroku’s throat was suddenly dry as he followed her. _Oh, who the hell am I kidding_ , he thought. _This is nothing like those other times._ He drew to a halt at the end of the corridor, glancing down at Sango as she fumbled for her key. _I’ve never wanted to stay any other time._

The door swung open. “Would you like to come in?” she asked, looking up at him. “Stay for a drink?”

 _No, no, no, no_ , his inner voice chanted, clanging against his brain with ever-more-alarming force.

“Sure,” he said, relieved to hear his voice calm, the tone easy in his ears.

She looked as relieved as he felt. “Right this way,” she replied, ushering him into the room and turning on the light.

His breath caught in his chest as the room was illuminated – it was a luxurious expanse, stretching as far and wide as the eye could see. A sliding glass door leading out to the balcony was straight ahead, with another door leading off the immediate room situated to the right. Before him sat two large sofas, covered in dark leather, and a dining room table and chairs the color of rich bamboo. Sango moved off to his left and he peeked around the corner after her, eyeing a kitchen full of stainless steel cookware and cabinetry, surrounded on all sides by marble countertops. The entirety of his little apartment downtown could fit in this one space, and dimly, he realized, he hadn’t seen the half of it.

Sango was standing in front of the full-size refrigerator, staring at its contents listlessly. Silently, Miroku padded over, startled by the feel of cool tile beneath his feet. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder. His stomach twisted a little at the sight of so much fresh foliage and gourmet offerings, but he kept his mouth shut. He’d been around the block enough to know how to keep a firm grip on his sometimes desperate appetites.

“Pick your poison,” she replied, gesturing to the bottom shelf. “Vodka, gin, rum…? I appear to have quite the variety.”

He quirked his brow at that last comment, but deign let it pass. “Vodka?” he suggested, glancing through the rest of the fridge. He pointed up. “We can mix it with anything and pretend it isn’t there.”

She chuckled, pulling out the liter of orange juice he indicated along with the bottle of liquor. “I like the way you think,” she mused, setting them on the counter and pulling out two short, fat breakfast glasses.

“Allow me,” he suggested, reaching for the bottles. She complied silently, crossing her arms lightly over her midsection as she watched him mix the drinks. He felt better handling the measuring, knowing how to pour perfectly blended drinks by feel, all while creating the illusion he was using more alcohol than strictly necessary. She was a girl who drank to drown her sorrows, and considering how deep they were running tonight…

“Here you are,” he said with a flourish, handing her one of the glasses. She appeared amused by his antics, and secretly he was glad, for he was unsure how to handle the situation at the moment. He’d seen the wild swings in her emotions already that night, and the last thing he wanted was to leave under the strain of anger or duress. No doubt she had been worn thin by the events of the day already; the last thing she needed was to go to bed upset.

He downed his own drink, ignoring the telltale tightening of his chest at the idea of her, in bed. She probably had a huge, soft, down-feather-sinking-into-the-bed mattress, covered with silk sheets and a big, warm comforter, wide enough to roll over two or three times before meeting either end…or big enough for two to lay comfortably together in the middle…

He choked a bit as air suddenly filled his mouth, and he realized he’d finished the cocktail all in one sweep. His heart was beating wildly in his chest as he righted himself, pushing back the reckless images all too familiar in his mind. _Get a grip_ , he admonished himself. _This is hardly the time to be thinking about sex. She’s feeling lower than low already – she hardly needs to be objectified on top of that._

But he found himself lucky, as he spiraled back down to the present, that she wasn’t paying attention to the war he fought within himself. Instead, she had wandered back out into the living room area of the suite, dallying with her drink as she stared out into the cityscape. Her expression had softened in the meanwhile, and she looked so forlorn – her eyes were filmy, her mouth slightly pouty, one of the muscles in her jaw ticking as she chewed on her lower lip. He wondered how she felt in that moment, if she was reliving some past memory or pang of anguish, or if she was silently berating herself for ‘letting her brother get away’, as she so often seemed to do, or if she was plotting her fiance’s death – hopefully in slow, torturous fashion.

She felt _something_ , at least, even if he couldn’t quite decipher what, and that was a good thing. Nothing was quite so scary as listening to her admit a bitter death wish, one that bloomed not from pain, but from bleak numbness. He’d known exactly the well from which she was drawing, and that’s why he’d merely embraced her in response, pulling her close, trying to imbue her with warmth and vitality and remind her that she had something to live for, even in the wake of such tragedy. It was what he’d needed when he’d faced the same terror…only he hadn’t received it, being completely alone in the world.

Maybe he didn’t have a place in hers, but dammit, he couldn’t bear to see those same scars surface in another person – especially not one as bright and fiery and willful as her. She’d been through a hell of a lot already, and he knew, deep in his gut, that if she could hang on for these first few days, she would find a way to dig herself out of even this.

He also knew, deep in his gut, that he was going to suffer right along with her – even if she pushed him away. His first impression – of not knowing, and yet somehow knowing her all the same – had only strengthened over the course of their long conversations; in her, he found something worthy of investment…for the first time since his father’s death. He’d never allowed himself to grow close to anyone after losing the last vestige of his natural family, knowing all too well the pain associated with that, but there was something about her – something innate, primal – that drew him to her. It was, by pure chance, that they’d met, but he knew better than to let such an opportunity go squandered.

He looked down, shifting his weight from one leg to another. He also realized that, to do this right – to keep her friendship, her loyalty, her trust – meant putting aside his own needs. His experience with women and their emotions led him to his next thought, however reluctant he was to voice it.

“Do you think you’ll be okay tonight?” he asked, approaching her on quiet feet, forcing himself to relax and adopt a calm expression.

Slowly, her eyes drifted over to him, and she shifted, ever so slightly, almost folding into herself. He studied her for a moment, reading the signs of her face as well as those of her body, before reaching out, touching her in a way most familiar, sliding his hand over the back of her neck and dipping his fingers over her shoulder.

She closed her eyes, leaning into the caress, and smiled faintly. “Yes,” she replied, and his heart skipped a beat, relief settling into his chest as he gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“But only if you stay.”

His heart suddenly lodged in his throat. “Sango, I – ”

But his objection was cut off as she pressed herself close, wrapping her arms around him and tucking her head into the hollow of his neck. “Please, don’t leave,” she pleaded in a whisper, her breath warm against his ear. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not…after…”

Her words trailed into the night air as he returned her embrace, closing his arms around her waist. After a moment, he allowed a hand to drift up her back, inching nearer to the scar he knew was there, one that had fascinated and horrified him all at the same time…one that she hadn’t allowed him to touch before, wrenching away at the barest stroke of broken skin. It was almost a test, to his mind: could things really have shifted so much in the space of a few hours?

She inhaled sharply as his hand came to rest over it, her fingernails digging into the backs of his shoulders, but she didn’t flinch as he expected. Tentatively, he smoothed a circle over the spot, gently, like a masseur, his fingers finding and tracing the edges of unevenly healed flesh. She let loose a deep, jagged breath, warm tears pooling on his shoulder, but she held herself still under his exploration.

He furrowed his brow at her reaction, stilling his hand over her back. “Why do you wish me to stay?” he asked, genuinely curious, when it was obvious he had upset her by touching her in this way.

She sniffled. “I’m so tired of feeling alone,” she replied. “My world has crumbled all around me, and I don’t know what to do, except be numb.” She sighed. “But when I’m with you…I can feel again. Something besides sorrow and anger.”

She lifted her head, pressing her tear-stained cheek to his. “I feel comfortable with you, because you accept me for who I am – not who I used to be, or who I could be.”

His heart was pounding furiously in his chest; it was all he could to do hear her over the roar of blood in his ears. “That’s because I know you right now,” he whispered in response. “And I want to stay with you.”

She stiffened and shuddered, and he felt fresh tears roll down her cheeks. Her emotional barriers were falling, and she was letting him in – and he knew he had to tread carefully, even in the face of his own eagerness. He lifted his hand away from the scar on her back, touching her cheek, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away her tears. She shifted closer, pressing her lips to his, and he took the opportunity to lay his own heart bare, inviting her to stay, and take, and find within him what he sought in her.

The kiss was slow, reminiscent of the few shared back at the bar, more in the vein of seeking comfort and solace than a declaration of pleasure or anticipation. He was patient, however, letting her take the lead, waiting for her to relax. It seemed so odd to him that the tears kept coming, even as the kisses began to lengthen and deepen. After a few long, tense moments, he pulled away slightly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I can make you feel better,” he murmured.

“Better?” she echoed, frowning slightly, two more tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Yes,” he said. “You just have to trust me, open yourself up with me, more than you did with your last lover.”

She shivered in response, and he stopped breathing for a moment as surprise rocked through him. Surely she understood the implications of her plea for him to stay the night…?

“I trust you,” she replied after a moment, leaning in to kiss him again, curling her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I trust the way I feel with you.”

 _Good_ , he surmised silently, surprised but pleased when she opened her mouth to him, inviting the advances of his tongue.

Heat began to build between them, a steady rise in body temperature as well as the first tendrils of passion flaring forth. Their kisses grew hungrier, more urgent, more exciting as tongues met, touched, laved together. Their mutual embrace intensified – chest to chest, breath for breath, heartbeat racing against heartbeat. Fingers and hands began to explore, drifting through hair, over shoulders, along sides. His heart skipped a beat as his hand found the curve of her bottom, copping an appreciative squeeze through very familiar clothing.

She pulled away first, her breath rising hard and fast in her chest as she grabbed his hand and led him out of the living room, pushing through the door he’d seen earlier on the right. She tried to lead him into the room, but he stopped her at the door, his eyes wide as he took in the beauty and breathtaking expanse of it all.

There was not one large bed, as he’d suspected, but two slightly smaller ones, set far enough apart for separate nightstands but still filling the space. The glass wall with the sliding door leading to the balcony extended into this room, and the first pink rays of dawn were beginning to lighten across the cityscape. Sango glanced back at him, questions gathering in her expression, and he brought her close once again, tracing his lips down the column of her throat.

“Sit on the bed near the window,” he instructed softly as his lips found her earlobe.

She furrowed her brow as she gazed down at him. “Why?”

“It’ll be better over there,” he replied, nuzzling her ear. “Just trust me.”

She shrugged, and sighed under his ministrations, and led him to his preferred destination, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the curtained glass wall. As she tried to move over the mattress, he stopped her, drawing her upright and keeping her on the edge, kneeling at the bedside.

She giggled nervously as his mouth moved away from hers, his tongue blazing a lazy, yet sensuous trail down the side of her neck. His right hand stole underneath the too-large shirt, sliding up and down her side with gentle, teasing strokes, his fingers splaying over her back and his thumb tracing patterns over her belly, her ribs, and under the curve of her breast.

“What are you doing?” she sputtered between breaths as he pulled at the collar of the t-shirt, stretching it wide with his free hand so that he could kiss the skin of her shoulder.

He smiled as he made his way back to her mouth. “Why don’t we play a little game?” he suggested coyly, between kisses.

She stiffened. “A game?” she repeated skeptically.

He stilled his roving hands, curving both around her waist as he kissed her softly. “You’ll like it, I promise,” he said, pressing himself close to her, matching the reassuring embraces they had started with. “You’ll be in complete control.”

She didn’t appear convinced. “And if I _don’t_ like it, we can stop?”

He kissed her again, long and sweet. “Of course.”

She tightened the brace of her arms across his back before replying. “Okay,” she finally relented, and he wondered just what had happened to her in the past to elicit such a reaction.

He gave her another sweet kiss, just for good measure, before continuing. “The rules of the game are very simple,” he explained. “All you have to do is keep both hands on my shoulders, and stay upright.”

He positioned her hands on his shoulders as she looked at him curiously. “And what are you going to do?”

“This,” he replied, kissing her. He lingered at her lips but for a moment before moving on, nipping at her chin, her neck, and her shoulder. She gasped slightly as his mouth continued moving south, pressing light kisses to her chest over the shirt. His hand drifted up from its place at the base of her spine, moving under the shirt along the same general path. As he came to her breasts, he began to use his teeth, grazing them across the smooth, sensitive skin, using the friction of the fabric to his advantage in this teasing manner. As he finished with one and moved on to the other, he cupped her in his hand, earning another gasp of surprise and pleasure. He took his time, tracing his fingers across the fast-warming skin, delighting in the shivers of anticipation that floated down her spine when he found her nipple and tweaked it into a perfect pearl.

His second hand soon joined the first, and he surprised her by switching directions, leaning back up to kiss her again as he took his own pleasure in caressing her breasts. They were beautiful – he could tell without even looking – the shape and size a perfect fit to his hand. She relaxed under his attentions, her body sinking into the mattress, her legs opening before him.

He continued along the path he’d previously forged, moving down the valley between her breasts, still kissing her through the thin cloth of the shirt, landing home on the flat planes of her belly. He earned a small giggle as he planted a kiss in her belly button, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over her sides, under her ribs. Gently, he steered her closer to the edge of the bed, pulling away slightly when he found the waistband of the pants she wore.

Her fingers began to dig into his shoulders as he worked open the clasp, pulling down the zipper. “Do you think you can stand up for a second?” he murmured, taking fistfuls of the loosened fabric.

She did as asked, using him as leverage to lift herself off the mattress, and he tugged the pants down. They gave way easily, sliding down the length of her long, slim legs, and he motioned for her to sit again. He could sense the anxiety that crept into her posture, straightening her back and bringing her legs together in deference to modesty. He assented, simply stroking the backs of her calves at first, allowing her to grow comfortable with the position. A bit more natural light had crept into the room, just enough to tease his senses.

He pressed a kiss just inside her knee. “Are you okay?” he asked, caressing the top of her thigh.

Immediately, the pressure lifted from his shoulders. “Yes,” she replied, taking a deep breath.

He smiled against her skin. “I promise, I don’t bite,” he teased. “Unless, of course, you want me to.”

She laughed, but it sounded forced, so he stayed by her knee, pressing another soft kiss next to the joint. Incrementally, she began to relax into his touch, and he moved forward, leaving quick, fiery kisses along the line of her inner thigh. She tensed as he drew nearer to his ultimate destination, so he moved on, continuing along the other leg, taking the time to learn each secret sweet spot with his hands and his mouth. Her skin was fragrant, a mix of warm vanilla and lemon, probably the result of some special soap or lotion, but to him, it fit perfectly – comfortable, sweet, a hint of tart lurking just beneath the surface.

Finally, finally, after what seemed like hours of sweet torture, he moved back to her core, gently pushing her legs farther apart as he zeroed in. Here was the evidence of her arousal, the product of all his prior practice, and the first, tentative taste sent a jolt straight to his groin. 

She was wet, so beautifully, gorgeously wet already – he could practically taste her through the fabric of her panties. Wasting no time, he reached up, hooking his fingers at the waistband on her hips and tugging them down, revealing to him the prize he’d worked so hard for. She was breathing heavily, her nails digging deep into his shoulders, but that hardly registered as he leaned close, inhaling the very scent of her.

He touched her first, anticipating the tremors that shook her spine, using the faint light of breaking day to guide his hand in its exploration, moving through the mound of brown curls, stroking the length of her before finding and rubbing her clit. He loved the way she shivered as he licked and kissed, the way her hips began to move, splitting her legs open even further, almost begging for his touch. He opened her innermost folds and plunged in with his tongue, and she almost lost the plot, arching her back as she mewled with pleasure, clutching with her fingertips at the seams of his shirt. He steadied her somewhat with his hands, lacing her legs over his arms as he held onto her waist, and continued his steady movements. His tongue moved all along the length of her, teasing and tasting and tempting, and he was impressed with her endurance, at adhering to the rules of their game, at holding herself upright and fighting the natural desire to lay back and allow him free reign.

When he flicked his tongue on her clit, she finally gave way, releasing him and falling back on the bed, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts. He couldn’t resist suckling at it, for just a moment, before breaking away, rocking back on his hands as he fought to catch his breath.

“Oh,” she mumbled, almost desperately, “don’t stop!”

He laughed, reaching up to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. “You let go,” he informed her. “Rules of the game.”

She bolted upright, surprise and even a hint of distress crossing her features. “Fuck,” she whispered, and he couldn’t help himself from laughing – the foul word dropped from her mouth just as dainty as you please!

She slapped her hand over her mouth and looked ready to weep, so he quickly pushed himself up and took her into his arms. “None of that, now,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ve only just begun.”

She made some sound of approval as he kissed her again, a rocket of surprise shooting down his spine (and straight to his ever-tightening groin) as she opened her mouth to him. There was something wicked about tasting her, _all_ of her, like this, but he took what she was willing to give.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him as they continued to kiss, and then it was her turn to give a command. “Under the covers,” she directed him. “I like to be surrounded and warm when I make love.”

His heart pounded just a little faster in his chest as he reached for the exquisitely appointed sheets, pulling them all way in one decidedly ungraceful move. She laughed anyway, climbing into the bed, and he followed shortly thereafter, only pausing to shed his clothing. She tossed away his old t-shirt as he sank into the luxurious softness of the bed, and he responded by pulling her close as he warmed under the layers of bedclothes, enjoying the slickness of the heat he’d worked up within her.

For a moment, they merely lay together, indulging in the welcome wonder of skin against skin, hands treading over now familiar territory. He took the opportunity to properly adore her breasts, touching and tasting and teasing with his lips and tongue and teeth, until she was breathing deep and hard and fast, heating pouring from her core. She had her turn to explore as well, her hand finding and teasing his now rock-hard length. She stroked him several times before rolling over until she sat astride him, her long hair falling over her back and curtaining him.

She knew how to tease as well, rocking over just enough to guide the tip into her warmth before backing away, even managing to resist his urgings to allow him entrance. She smiled and laughed and nuzzled him even as she taunted him, which only served to make him want her more, more, more; when he finally reached his breaking point she capitulated, sliding down over the length of him, and he wondered if, in that moment, he’d managed to touch the edge of heaven.

She began to move against him, but he stilled her, splaying his hands over her hips, exploring the sensation. She leaned down, touching his face, kissing his lips, but never asking the obvious question – and that made him wonder if she felt it too: the way their bodies connected, the way he felt inside her, the way she could still embrace him so fully even from such a position of power. It was as if they were two perfect circles entwined. 

Neither spoke as they began to move, both with and against each other, spirals of heat and desire and need circulating around them, through them. She never sat up more than was absolutely necessary, preferring to stay as close to him as possible – kissing, if possible – sweet, long kisses of comfort and want and reassurance. It was such a strange experience for Miroku, as if his heart was breaking and healing all at once. 

He opened his eyes when he felt tears splash down on his cheeks, and Sango broke away at that moment, shuddering through her climax, clinging to him, her muscles spasming around him, triggering his own fall from the cliff. White hot need burst through him as he felt himself empty inside her, and he knew – 

– He _knew_ , no doubt in his mind – 

– that they would be forever entangled after this moment.

Sango curled beside him in the aftermath, her skin flushed and radiant, and she looked at him with large, rounded eyes. “Did you feel that?” she whispered, as if fearful of his answer, that it would be no.

He pulled her close, his arms encircling her waist, his hands twining through the glossy strands of her hair. “Yeah,” he replied in a hushed tone.

She burrowed a bit closer, worrying the edge of her lower lip as she rested her head against his chest. “Have you ever felt it before?” she wondered aloud.

He swallowed hard, hoping her answer would be the same. “No.”


	8. This Twist of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I do not want to foresee the future; I am concerned with taking care of the present. God has given me no control over the moment following.” – Gandhi

Miroku dreamt of lace and silk.

Specifically, his dreams were filled with black French-cut lace silk panties, and the perfect way they curved around the most beautiful part of a woman’s body, so alluring and inviting and tempting, as if begging for his touch. Lace, because it was so dainty, spread across the skin as if to protect it and enhance it at the same time, was perfect in combination with silk, so decadent by its very nature. He loved the way it felt, the differences in texture against his fingers and then his palm, teasing him of the prize that awaited within…

Damn if the Europeans didn’t know their underwear.

He shifted slightly in his sleep, one hand stealing down the warm body curled around him until it found that very prize. He sighed deep with pleasure as his hand cupped her bottom, enjoying to the very core of his being the thrill that accompanied each and every stroke. Eventually, the light caress was enough to make her stir beside him, and the rest of his body roused to life with anticipation.

The images in his head shifted abruptly when he felt her slick warmth brush against his thigh, sensations becoming far too real to merely be limited to a dream state. The corners of his mouth cracked up into a smile as soft kisses were pressed into his neck. His hands found her hips and he shifted again, preparing to lift and tuck and sheathe, and in the haziness of his half-awake mind, he decided there was no better way to wake up than this.

“Sango!”

Miroku froze where he lay, his eyes cracking open. Daylight streamed into the room, piercing against his tired senses. He glanced to the side, catching Sango’s gaze and watching, with no small amount of dread, as it narrowed and focused back on him.

Muffled voices continued to filter into the room, along with the sounds of a small scuffle. “You have no right!” cried an unknown female, followed by sounds of the suite door opening.

A man answered her, sounding quite affronted. “I have every right,” came the response. “She is my fiancée, living in my hotel! I only wish to know how she is doing, in light of the news.”

Miroku’s heart began to pound furiously. He struggled to wipe the cobwebs from his brain, but under the guise of so little sleep, it was proving to be a difficult task indeed. Sango’s arms wrapped round his neck as the voices moved closer, and he was startled to feel the urgent press of her mouth to his, a jolt of surprise rocketing straight down his spine.

“The news _you_ gave her?” argued the woman. “You should’ve known how she’d react, you ungrateful prick!”

“That’s enough,” admonished the man, sliding his key into the bedroom door. “This is none of your affair, Akiko.”

Sango released Miroku in the same moment that the door opened with a flourish. His attention turned to the scene that greeted them, and he was ill-prepared for what unfolded right before his eyes.

“S-Sango,” the man said, stumbling over her name.

Miroku eyed him curiously. Given the snatches of conversation they’d been privy to already, he could only conclude that this was the mysterious fiancé. He was of average height and average build, with brown hair and brown eyes, but he carried an air about him. He was dressed in the highest cut of fashion as well; even an untrained eye could see the quality of cloth and value of custom tailoring that made his clothes mold perfectly to his frame. His face was pleasant enough, or at least it would’ve been, had it not been marred at such an expression.

“What do you want?” Sango asked in clipped tones, her voice full of cold, seething anger.

Karanousuke’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled to take in this shocking scene. It seemed so strange to Miroku that he was not equal parts angry and raging and righteous; instead, Karanousuke appeared well and truly surprised and hurt to see his future wife lying in bed with another man. His eyes were wide and round, unblinking, and his lips were thin and tight, as if he was trying not to cry. Akiko finally pushed her way into the room and gasped, covering her mouth and looking away, but Miroku couldn’t discern whether she was horrified or gloating.

“S-Sango,” Karanousuke tried again, finally dragging his eyes away from her and onto the interloper. His eyes narrowed as he studied Miroku for the merest moment before turning his attention back to his estranged fiancée. In the space of a breath, he managed to completely calm himself, straightening his spine to appear even more regal than before.

“My dearest, we have an appointment this morning,” he announced, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

“No, we don’t,” Sango argued, gathering the sheets around herself and sinking back, as if hunkering down for a long row.

Karanousuke blinked. “Yes, we do – 9 am, at the morgue. The coroner is ready for an identification.”

Sango blanched, and it was all Miroku could do to not pull her close. “My brother?” she choked out. 

“Of course,” Karanousuke confirmed. “Unless – you are otherwise occupied? If so, I can do it myself, but I would need a picture, to make sure I give a positive ID.”

Sango sank further into the pillows, her color returning and flaming with a vengeance. “No,” she said swiftly. “He’s my responsibility.”

Karanousuke assented, his gaze falling to the floor momentarily. “Of course, my love,” he replied, walking around to her side of the bed, pushing a lock of tousled hair behind her ear, before bending and pressing a light kiss to her temple. “I’ll give you some privacy to change. Meet me outside in an hour?”

Sango didn’t so much as look at him, singularly unmoved by these comforting caresses. Her tension was palpable to Miroku, radiating from her in copious waves, and he wondered for a moment if this fiancé was just that calculating, or just that oblivious.

“Come along, Akiko,” Karanousuke said a moment later, retreating from the room. “Let’s give her space now.” It didn’t take much for him to dislodge the still-gawking girl from her spot before closing the door once more.

Miroku and Sango half-lay, half sat in the bed for a long, silent moment. He watched her closely as he tried to decide on a course of action; he still wasn’t entirely alert, his mind was still sloughing off the events of the night, as well as the throes of thwarted passion. He felt any myriad of emotions at the moment – lust and need and surprise and annoyance and fear…and for once, he had no ready answers.

She moved, shifting to the side of the bed and swinging her feet to the floor, wrapping herself in the blankets and giving him her back. He swallowed hard as the knot of dread in his stomach doubled, finding it exceedingly difficult to get past the lump that had built in his throat.

 _She’s going to say goodbye_ , he realized, a spear of pain slicing through his gut. _And there’s nothing I can do to stop her._

“You should go,” she murmured starkly, twisting the bedclothes even more tightly around herself.

He squeezed his eyes shut as a shaky breath rose in his chest. “Sango –” he started.

“No,” she burst out, unable to conceal the tremble of accompanying tears in her voice. “Just go.”

He moved across the mattress, reaching out to touch her, to reignite the connection that had bound them together so swiftly only a few hours earlier. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, brushing his fingers across her back.

“ _I know_ ,” she replied forcefully, but under the intensity of her voice he heard the strength of her fear. 

Another time, another place…he’d known that very fear. He could be empathetic to the pressure and strain she was under; he could understand the way she felt boxed in by her own guilt, as if she had no other choice but to submit to the manipulations of the man running the show. But at that very moment, he was also cognizant of his own rawness and vulnerability. Whether she meant it or not, the chill of her rejection struck him at the very core.

“You don’t owe him anything,” he muttered, surprising himself with the force of jealousy in his voice.

She whipped around to face him then, rebellious tears splashing down her cheeks. “I owe him my life,” she argued through clenched teeth before burying her face in her hands.

He gathered her in his arms then, holding her as close as humanly possible, as though he’d never be able to close the gulf rising fast and hard between them. “Then why did you stay with me instead?”

She shook her head and sobbed into his shoulder, unwilling to answer him or even return the embrace. “This isn’t real,” she blubbered. “This isn’t who I am. I don’t lie. I don’t cheat.”

“I think you know, _this_ is very real,” he countered softly, pulling away just enough to press his lips to hers. Her response was swift, immediate, melting into him; her need and fear and anguish was acute, palpable, blatant.

She pushed away after a moment. “No,” she insisted. “This isn’t real. You don’t know me.”

Miroku’s jaw dropped. “I don’t _know you_? I know everything about you.” His mind was racing. _How could she say such a thing? Now?! After everything we’ve been through – done together –_

“And I don’t know _anything_ about you,” she shot back.

The rational part of him realized it was her renewed grief talking, but the emotional side of him balked at the denial rampant in her words. He couldn’t shove away the hurt that rose up within him, the result of laying his heart bare, only to have it thrown back in his face. Could she make it any clearer that he had no place in her world? That, because he had nothing beyond love and compassion to offer her, he wasn’t good enough for her? _Look around!_ cried the little voice in his head. _Karanousuke is an idiot, but he can give her the moon!_

“Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “Maybe this is all a dream. But there’s nothing wrong with holding onto dreams.”

“Not when reality slaps you in the face,” she muttered bitterly.

He could take no more of this. He’d already known he was going to suffer, whether it was with her or not. He wanted to be there for her; he wanted to hold her and show her life was worth living even after heart-rending tragedy, but he couldn’t stop her from pushing him away. He couldn’t – he wouldn’t – force her to relive this pain and anguish every day, as her fiancé seemed content to do. 

“One day, you’re going to realize you deserve to be happy, Sango,” he finally said, pulling away from her completely and standing up. He moved around the room, dressing and gathering his belongings. She was silent, but she stayed, alternating between watching him and looking away, as if unable to refute him but not unwilling to try.

Finally, against every good grain of his body, he made the toughest decision of his life: he left her there without another word. It wasn’t until he was safely in the elevator once more that he allowed himself to give in to his own tears. _Just remember_ , he told himself, eyeing his ruddy reflection in the mirrored steel doors. _Sometimes goodbye is a second chance._


	9. A Loss of Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Death is the wish of some, the relief of many, and the end of all.” – Lucius Annaeus Seneca

The light in the hallway was piercing and bright, a striking contradiction to the chill of the air that surrounded them, but Sango gave no heed to either. Silently, they walked down the corridor, the heels of her shoes clicking in cadence with the beat of her heart. She trained her eyes forward, counting each bland, square tile to come, willing her rushing thoughts to cede and her mind to numb over once more.

“Are you all right, my dearest?” Karanousuke murmured, for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last five minutes. They had travelled to the morgue in silence, but ever since entering the building, he’d been hovering over her like a worried hen.

The skin on her back rippled where his fingers brushed against the soft silk of her dress, and it was all she could do not to wrench away from his grasp. Instead, she tightened the brace of her arms, her knuckles blanching white under the strain of her effort, and said nothing, giving no indication she’d even heard him.

Indeed, the words barely registered; her mind was a million miles away – lingering in the early morning hours, in the comfort of a familiar stranger, drowning in a sea of guilt and misery. As much as she wanted to push those memories out of her mind, she found she couldn’t, his last words haunting her:

_“One day, you’re going to realize you deserve to be happy, Sango.”_

Happiness felt like a foreign concept.

For the last five years of her life, she’d thrown herself into her quest, hanging every last shred of sanity on the hope that her beloved younger brother was still alive, waiting for her, wanting her to protect him as she always had when they were children. She gone through hell and back – watching her family collapse all around her, following every last lead on her missing brother’s possible whereabouts, finding herself at the business end of guns and knives more times than she cared to admit – and the last thing she’d ever been was happy, or peaceful, or serene. 

For five years, she’d lived on the edge of terror, and for twenty-four hours, she’d been wallowing in a pit of despair. 

Only, it hadn’t been all despair.

She’d allowed herself to seek comfort, and she’d found it in spades with him, as she knew she would. He was everything she’d needed in that moment, and the powerful connection they’d forged in the heat of passion would have been enough to scare her, had she been in her right mind. She’d let down her guard completely and invited him in, allowing him to see her sorrow and vulnerability and hope in the midst of tragedy.

She had allowed him to love her, when she’d deserved no such thing.

Even now, as she made her way down this stark hall, she could still feel the warmth of his embrace, cloaking her, giving rise to gooseflesh across her skin. She could feel the soft, seductive press of his lips to hers, the memory of the way their mouths slanted together burned into her brain. She could feel the whisper of his fingertips, cupping the base of her neck, splaying through her hair, sliding gently along the contour of her shoulder.

And yet, at the same time, she felt strangely disembodied, as if she was watching herself from a distance, a broken woman going through the motions, the rituals of death.

They ground to a halt in front of a double-sided window, and Sango stared ahead, trepidation blooming in her chest. Faintly, she could hear the rustling of the medical personnel on the other side of the thick glass, made aware of their presence when her fiancé pushed a small red button beside the window frame, and did her best to prepare herself, not knowing what she was about to face.

Karanousuke slipped his hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze as the curtain was pulled, revealing a metal examining table and the body that lay upon it, covered in a blue sheet. Sango let out a breath she wasn’t even aware she had been holding, surprised to feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes.

“K-Kohaku,” she breathed, her voice catching at the back of her throat.

The body that lay upon the table was the color of death – his skin, pale and ashen; his hair, a dull, lifeless brown. There was no sense of peace around him, only the absence of life. 

Sango felt her knees giving way, but she fought to stay upright, dragging her eyes over the length of him, taking it all in. Only his face and neck were visible above the sheet, but even there, he bore the evidence of abuse – scars, bruises, sunken cheeks, cracked lips. Wisps of something dark and unnatural marred the skin of his shoulders and chest, curling up the side of his neck, and she found she couldn’t look away – arrested, taunted, tantalized.

“Let me see him,” she choked out, leaning forward against the glass as if she could will herself on the other side and into the room. She fisted her free hand and began to beat on the window pane. “Let me see him!”

“Sango, what are you talking about?” Karanousuke asked, his voice filled with confusion. “You _can_ see him from here. I – ”

She broke away from him, looking up and down the wall almost desperately, spotting the door and making a beeline for it. She pushed through before the medical staff could stop her and went immediately to the table, pulling the sheet off of her brother’s body, revealing the means of his death to one and all.

The room fell silent as she looked over him. His body was battered and broken, covered with the telltale marks of someone known to continuous, physical torture. His arms were covered with sleeves of tattoos, marking him as a slave of some deadly, criminal gang. A lesser woman might have swooned under the heaviness of the pain and horror that emanated from him, but Sango stood firm, ready and willing to take it all in, to accept this gruesome sight as punishment for her ultimate failure.

“Kohaku,” she murmured, caressing his cheek, brushing the hair away from his brow. It was longer than she remembered, thinner, coarser, but all she saw as she stared down at him was the sweet, smiling, inquisitive face of her baby brother, not a day older than when he’d gone missing, his eyes wide and begging as he pleaded with her to go outside and play in the rain puddles.

“ _Please, sister_ ,” echoed his sweet voice in her mind, “ _let me go_.”

“Kohaku!” she cried again, gathering his lifeless body in her arms as tears slid down her cheeks. Emotion overwhelmed her in that moment, rolling over her in great waves, crashing against the walls she’d erected to protect her mind, her soul, her memory. No doubt, to the others in the room, she looked like a woman unhinged, aggrieved beyond all measure, but on the inside she felt – 

– _relief_?

“Miss, please,” the coroner directed, gently pulling her away, disengaging the patient from her embrace. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, but you mustn’t touch the body.”

“Sango,” Karanousuke said in the same breath, gathering her close, hoping to redirect the flow of her tears onto his shoulder or against his chest. “Oh, my dear, sweet, poor Sango. Let me take you away from all this, hmm?”

“No,” she choked out, straining against his hold. “I’m okay.” She lifted a hand to wipe away her tears, taking a deep, shuttering breath at the same time. 

_I’m okay._

It was the last thing she ever expected to feel, but somehow – standing here, seeing him, touching him – it made it all seem real, in a way it hadn’t before. For five years, she’d been haunted – by doubt, by worry, by fear – but now, all of that was strangely laid to rest. She still felt sorrow and anguish and despair, but it was no longer accompanied by an overriding sense of guilt or disappointment.

He hadn’t run away. He had been forcibly taken, stolen from her and her family, and that meant –

It wasn’t her fault.

_It wasn’t her fault._

It wasn’t her fault.

“Kohaku,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

And it was over then – Karanousuke swept her out of the room, holding her tight to his side, rubbing his hand up and down her arm in soothing caress, mistaking the tears still falling down her cheeks for self-flagellation. He murmured calming words, of calling her family, of making the arrangements for the funeral, of leaving no stone unturned in the search for those responsible. 

Grief settled heavily in Sango’s chest, and for a moment, she relaxed into his embrace, closing her eyes and finding familiar comfort, envisioning not her fiancé, but Miroku at her side – someone who understood the conflicting feelings she still faced in the wake of her brother’s death, someone who could touch and calm and soothe her turbulent soul, someone who could share in this experience, lending his strength until she regained her own.

But the fantasy was shattered when she felt her companion pull away, and she opened her eyes to find herself outside, on the stoop of the medical facility, not far from the hustle and bustle of the morning business crowd. Beside her stood not her savior, her companion in grief and tragedy, but her fiancé, looking as calm, cool, and collected as ever, straightening the cuffs of his shirt and jacket.

“When your mother comes in, perhaps we ought to run some of our plans by her, see what she thinks,” he said rather blandly, inspecting his clothing for stray hairs and invisible bits of lint.

Sango could only stare at him, dumbfounded, wondering if this was the same man who wouldn’t let her walk two steps by herself only moments before. “What?” she finally managed to say, blinking rapidly.

“Our wedding plans, my dear,” Takeda clarified, his expression perfectly pleasant as he gazed at her.

Her jaw dropped. “I just had to ID my brother’s body and you’re thinking about _our wedding_?!”

He furrowed his brow before drawing her into a light embrace once more. “I know, my dear, and I realize how painful this experience has been for you. I can only imagine what you’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours – grief does drive us to do strange things – ”

Sango pushed him away, interrupting the flow of his gentle reprimands, her cheeks flaming as she glared at him. “Nothing half as strange as this,” she shot back through clenched teeth. “At least he _pretended_ to give a damn about how I was feeling, instead of talking _through_ me!”

Karanousuke narrowed his eyes. “‘Pretended’ is right,” he declared drolly. “And then he used you for his own sake, only too happy to take advantage of a vulnerable woman.” He exhaled sharply and shook his head, indicating just what he thought of a man with such motives. “Now do you see what kind of man he is, and why I didn’t want you hanging around him in the first place?”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Sango sputtered, her skin flushing hot and cold. She felt herself losing balance, her world tilting drunkenly, the ground shifting beneath her feet.

He dared touch her again, clasping her hands in his, his expression turning pleading and patronizing. “I was worried about you,” he said, his tone softer, though his words were no less firm. “I only wanted to protect you from all of this, to spare you this horror.”

“No,” she replied, her voice preternaturally calm, her eyes lifting to meet his. “You wanted to own me. _That’s_ why you gave me this ring – not because you _loved_ me, but because you wished to _have_ me.”

“Sango, – ” he started, but she wouldn’t let him finish. She wrenched away from him, yanking the engagement ring from her finger and shoving it into his hands.

“Nobody _owns_ me,” she swore, “no matter how indebted to them I am.”

She pushed past him, descending into the crowd, moving too fast to know if he called after her or not. She needed to get away, be alone, to work through the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Where that ultimately left her, she wasn’t sure, but for the first time in five years, she finally felt like her old self again.


	10. Fortune Favors the Bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” – Washington Irving

Miroku glanced up as a knock sounded at the door. He was sitting in his office, counting up the night’s receipts, and was almost desperate for a distraction from the most mind-numbingly boring aspect of his job.

Mei, one of his closing waitresses, stuck her head in. “How’s it coming in here?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He shrugged, lifting the small pile of papers. “It’s coming,” he replied ruefully, “just not very quickly. What’s up?”

She slipped in, closing the door behind her. “Nothing much. We’re all finished up front, and the other girls went home. I thought I’d wait on you, though, see if you needed anything.”

He granted her a small smile. “That’s okay – you go ahead. I’ll probably be awhile with all this.” He gestured to the large, ancient ledger in front of him, along with the piles of receipts that represented his business for the week. It was an archaic bookkeeping system, to be sure, but it was the one he’d inherited with the place – and he had neither the time nor the inclination to upgrade it. He liked to keep things simple: good food, good drinks, good company.

“Oh.” Mei stood awkwardly for a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She was one of the new hires, a petite girl with bottle-blonde hair and pixie features. She’d been there for a few weeks, but was still trying to find her place in their little world. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Not unless you’re good with math,” Miroku sighed, turning back to his columns of numbers.

She perked up. “Believe it or not, I am,” she replied, moving quickly to his side and leaning over the desk. “You want me to double-check these?”

“Uh, sure,” he choked out, blinking rapidly as he found himself with a bird’s eye view of her chest. A ripple of wary surprise travelled down his spine; quickly, he cut his eyes back to his own work.

After a moment, she spoke again. “These look okay to me,” she announced, casually slinging her arm across the back of his chair. “How about you?”

When he dared glance up again, he found her face inches from his. “Mei, this isn’t a good idea,” he said, pulling back slightly.

She furrowed her brow. “What’s not a good idea?” she asked, dropping her arm from the chair to his shoulders. “I like you, you like me – what’s the problem here?”

Heaviness settled in his abdomen. She was cute, and her offer was tempting – but his heart wasn’t in it. “You work for me,” he countered weakly.

She smiled softly. “That hasn’t stopped you before,” she reminded him, pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The other girls told me what a great lay you were.”

Guilt flooded through him as he stood up, crossing the room with a hand over his eyes. “I’m flattered, but that was before – ”

“Before what?” she interrupted, trailing after him, crossing her arms over her chest.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t matter.” He took hold of her shoulders. “Look, I appreciate the offer – the _very_ tempting offer – but not tonight, okay? Maybe some other time?” _By which I mean never_ , he added silently. 

She pouted, obviously put out by his rejection, but shrugged in assent. He gave her a reassuring squeeze before letting her go, moving back to his desk to resume the last of his work. _It certainly has been a night for midnight confessions_ , he mused, trying to find his place in the figures once more. He didn’t realize she hadn’t left until she spoke again, her words slicing through the silent air.

“You want my advice?” Mei mused aloud, one hand on the doorknob. “Go talk to her.”

Miroku glanced up sharply, his heart in his throat. _How did she – ?_

Mei shook her head. “Men really _are_ oblivious, aren’t they? It’s obvious something went down a couple weeks ago with you, and judging by your reaction, I’d say it was with a woman. You haven’t been the same since, you know? We’re all concerned about you.” She shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d like a distraction.”

He could only stare at her, stunned. Was his pain _that_ obvious? Did he miss her _that_ much?

“Take care of your unfinished business, Miroku,” Mei advised. “And take care of yourself.” The door softly clicked into the frame as she left.

Miroku sat back in his seat, figures forgotten. He glanced up at the ceiling before closing his eyes, falling prey to a rush of assailing memories – visions, scents, tastes – bare skin against bare skin – the way he felt inside her – lying naked in her arms – her cries of pleasure – her sweet kisses before, during, after –

– her tears – her rejection – her agony as he left – the final, biting, parting words – 

_“One day, you’re going to realize you deserve to be happy, Sango.”_

Sorrow sank over him like a leaden weight. He thought he’d been handling it okay; it wasn’t the first time he’d lost someone so near and dear to him. But if others were beginning to notice – if it was affecting his work – maybe it was time to reassess the situation.

Leaving her had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. He knew what it felt like to deal with insurmountable tragedy alone, and it was a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy…much less someone he could very much see himself growing to love. Being separated from her was painful, _physically painful_ – he barely slept anymore, his mind totally captivated in the small hours of the night, alternately entertaining elaborate fantasies of holding her, loving her, protecting her, and cycling through every possible outcome of that visit to the morgue with her asshole fiancé. That was the worst part of all – not knowing. Had she buried her brother? Had she gone home to her family? Had she married that jerk in the vain hope that he could heal her wounds?

More than once, he’d almost called her. He’d gotten the number to her room at the hotel, and found himself two digits away from completed dialing before pulling back and hanging up. What could he possibly say? Did she even want to see him again? She had kicked him out, after all, her rejection cold and cruel under the strain of her grief. He remembered the first time he’d met her, how resolute in her anger she’d been that night…and how much of a kinship he felt with her, in spite of barely knowing her.

He smiled wryly. Yes, in spite of it all, he clung to that little glimmer of hope. That kinship had only strengthened over time, forming an impenetrable bond, culminating in a night of passion that still rocked his world, even as a memory. It was how and why he still felt close to her, even from halfway across the sprawling expanse of the city. It was why he still suffered, why he couldn’t sleep, why he wanted to see her again, even knowing that it could be enough to irrevocably break him.

He stood up once more, giving up on work for the night. He closed and locked his office and, with one final sweep of the bar to make sure no one else was hanging around, closed and locked the front doors as well. The night was cool, the air heavy with the threat of rain, but he opted to walk anyway. 

The wind stung his face as he walked, paying little attention to his surroundings along the way. For some reason, he was put in mind of his father, and the long walks they used to take along the grounds of the monastery where he grew up. It was an old, spacious place, way up in the rural north, as far from a city as he could possibly imagine. The two of them used to walk for hours, trudging through the mountainous terrain in total silence. At the time, Miroku found the ritual annoying and unnecessary, but now, he understood his father’s cravings for it – and the quiet contemplation that accompanied it.

His heart skipped a painful beat. For as long as he could remember, he’d longed for the exciting life of the city, to be surrounded by people and things and events. He hated the isolation of the temple where they lived, and he resented the strict path of righteousness his father had tried to set him on from the start. In retrospect, Miroku realized his father’s decisions had been in response to his mother’s unexpected death, and his own inability to deal with raising a child alone, but when he was five, he didn’t see that – all he saw was a stodgy old man who denied his son the worldly pleasures of life. Though he eventually came to accept and even enjoy some aspects of his traditional Buddhist education, he nonetheless counted the days until he could leave, strike out on his own, forge his path in life.

And, at eighteen, his father let him go, sending him to the capital to live with an old friend who could give him a job and a place to stay. Miroku didn’t look back – Mushin was best uncle a horny young boy could ask for, giving him a job at his bar and turning a blind eye when he brought home a new girl each night. Just as he always knew he would, he blossomed under the social spotlight, finding his niche as a chatty, smooth bartender, always willing to lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on. He didn’t want to leave, not even when Mushin informed him of his father’s illness; stubbornly, he stayed put, still desperate to make up for two decades of solitude and seclusion.

He’d made the selfish decision, and he had never forgiven himself for it.

By the time he finally returned for a visit, his father was dead.

It had shocked him to the core – he’d left, scarcely the year before, and now he would never have the chance to say goodbye, or thank you, or even “I love you” to the only parent he’d ever known. He understood true regret and remorse then, when he found himself falling apart at the loss of his last living relative – finally, he saw the fleeting value of human life, the true teachings of his now-lapsed faith.

With a lot of work, and the support of uncle Mushin, he’d managed to recover and resume his life in the city, albeit at a more subdued pace. Two years later, his friend and mentor finally succumbed to his alcoholism, devastating him once again, and this time – leaving him to deal with the crisis quite alone. He inherited the bar and the staff and a whole heap of responsibility, which was very nearly the only thing that kept him functioning at the time. 

For all that he projected an easygoing, fun-loving, flirty, life-of-the-party façade, he’d locked himself away behind invisible, personal barriers. At twenty-one, he was very much a loner at heart – everyone he’d ever known and truly loved was gone. It took all of his strength and energy just to make it through each day, to reconcile himself with the man he had to become in order to keep going, to live up to the responsibilities piled on his shoulders. He could no longer afford to walk around with his head in the clouds, but he was wary of putting too much of himself out there again.

Even now, five years beyond Mushin’s passing, he still felt raw and vulnerable in personal relationships; that’s why he didn’t have very many, beyond a few trusted friends. Meeting Sango had changed all that – for the first time since his father, he sensed in her someone worthy of his time, his effort, his love and passion and protection – the whole of his being, the entirety of his soul. Perhaps most surprising of all, to him, was that none of this was tinged with worry or fear. When he was with her, it just felt right. He wasn’t afraid to share his past, the soaring highs and deep hurts, the promises and regrets, the thick and thin of it all. The more he knew of her, the more he sensed she could be _the one_ …another time, another place, maybe it could’ve all fallen into place perfectly.

Instead…

He looked up, finding himself across the street from her hotel, as if drawn there by some force beyond his own will. He glanced up into the window he knew was hers, relief flooding through him when he realized the light was on. _So she’s still here_ , he thought to himself. Against all odds, his tumultuous memories calmed, fresh resolve forming in his heart.

The obstacles were obvious. They lived in two different worlds as of yet; she, in her glamorous whirlwind of society parties and fancy hotels, of beautiful gowns and pantries filled with gourmet food, of never having to worry about paying bills or covering payroll, stood in stark contrast to his more modest lifestyle. He lived in a crummy little apartment, the greatest attribute of which was being close to the bar; he didn’t always eat right or well, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out shopping for pleasure instead of necessity. 

Even if she could accept a serious downgrade in lifestyle, would she be comfortable in his world of sin and temptation? Could she live with the idea of being two steps away from a willing lay, or a bottle, or a pill? Would she stand for long working hours or the unsteady, seasonal ebb and flow of his business?

Could she accept that this _was_ his life, or would she invite him into another one, away from all of this as well as his own sorrow-filled past?

The ball was in her court – the balance of his life was in her hands, and she didn’t even know it.

All the same, he felt no fear, no regret, no shame.

He was surprised to feel the sting of tears coursing down his cheeks as the wind howled past him, his eyes still steady on that brightly lit window. _I’m still here, Sango_ , he vowed silently. _If you still feel it, if you still want me…I’m here._


	11. The Perpetuity of Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We are given one life, and the decision is ours, whether to wait for circumstances to make up our minds, or whether to act – and, in acting, live.” – Omar N. Bradley

“Sango, I really think you’re making a mistake.”

Sango stifled a sigh, while at the same time resisting the urge to roll her eyes. This was not the first time she’d heard those eight words – nor, she suspected, would it be the last. It was a small price to pay, however, for the freedom this decision would ultimately grant her.

She held the phone a little tighter in her hand as she glanced around the exquisitely appointed room. Yes, she decided, she could live a lifetime with her mother’s sorrowful nagging if it meant escaping this place.

“I’ve made up my mind, Mama,” she replied, with as much gentleness and patience as she could muster. “This is the right thing to do.”

“Do you truly understand what you’re giving up?” her mother asked. Her voice was thin and reedy on the line, a confluence of worry, pain, and loneliness. The tone made Sango’s heart skip a beat. Her mother had aged twenty years with the news of Kohaku’s death; she barely recognized her when she had accompanied her brother’s body home to Osaka four weeks before. It was obvious losing her youngest child in such a violent manner had forever scarred her – and had sent her over the edge of parental protectiveness when it came to her eldest.

“Karanousuke has given you the world,” her mother continued quietly. “He would do anything for you.”

 _Except leave me alone_ , Sango thought wryly. 

“You would have a very comfortable life there,” her mother persisted. “You would never want for anything.” She paused, sniffling. “We only want what’s best for you, dear…”

 _I know, I know_ , Sango thought, clamping down on the rising tide of irritation. As much as she hated to hear her mother cry, what she hated more was the knowledge of where this was coming from. Her erstwhile ex-fiancé, having made all of the arrangements for her brother’s transportation and funeral, had tagged along on the journey, attending what were supposed to be private, family-only ceremonies. It was hard to begrudge his attendance, considering he had paid for the lavish arrangements; however, his lingering presence only strengthened her resolve to end their personal relationship.

It had quite the opposite effect on the rest of her family, perhaps only naturally. Her parents, no matter how resigned to the idea they would never see their son alive again, were nonetheless devastated by the discovery of Kohaku’s body. Karanousuke had swept in at just the right moment, his diligence and careful attention to detail easing their transition into full mourning via their rituals of death. He kept his distance during the wake, the funeral, the cremation, and ultimately, the burial, sticking close to the shadows with other relatives. In the periods between, however, he made his intentions to find Kohaku’s killer known to all who would listen, vowing passionately and forthrightly to devote the entirety of his attention and skill to the matter.

He had pleaded his case to stay by her side with her family…and it had worked. Nothing Sango said or did could wipe away their befuddlement with her decision to break the engagement and leave her life in the lap of luxury in the capital city.

Even now, a month past the burial, her parents struggled to understand. 

Sango was not deterred, however. She had returned to Tokyo, to the Prince Park Tower Hotel, to her decadent suite of rooms, to pack up what remained of her life. She had been in the midst of sorting through her personal belongings when her mother had called this time; although grateful for the break, she was not ready to have this same conversation again for the eighth or ninth time.

“What’s best for me right now,” Sango finally said, “is to be with you. _You’re_ my family.” _I might have failed in my quest to find Kohaku, but I won’t fail in this_ , she vowed silently. _We can be a family again – we_ need _to be a family again._

Her mother sniffled again. “Here, talk to your father, dear,” she said abruptly, handing the phone away.

Sango’s heart wrenched as she slid into a sitting position on one of the beds. As weepy and overprotective as her mother had become in the wake of Kohaku’s disappearance, her father was similarly gruff and to the point. Though he had always been a quiet man, he could never be mistaken for stupid. When he spoke, everyone sat up and took notice. He, too, had his reservations about her decision to leave Karanousuke and return home, but he had, for the most part, kept them to himself.

“Sango,” he said, without preamble, “don’t upset your mother like this.”

“I’m not trying to, Papa,” she replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her head was beginning to ache.

There was a pause; when next he spoke, his tone was softer. “I know, kitten,” he sighed. “It takes very little to upset her these days…”

Sango bit her lip. She hated the distance that had grown between her parents over the last five years, as they each dealt with the disappearance of their son in different ways. Not even in mourning could they find their way back to each other again. Instead of a family grieving the loss of a son, it was as if they were three strangers, bound together by common tragedy. It was why she wanted to go home, why she wanted to be around them even when they nagged her so – because she could be the strong one. She could bring them back together. Her presence could heal the rift her brother’s absence had made, and they could be a family again.

“Just make sure this isn’t a decision you’ve made in haste,” her father advised her. “You can always change your mind, you know.”

“I know,” Sango replied. _But I won’t._

“You have your whole life ahead of you,” he reminded her. “Don’t throw that away out of some sense of misplaced obligation.”

 _You and Mama are not beyond help_ , she thought, though she wisely held her tongue. “I’m not,” she insisted. “My family means everything to me.” 

“Even more than your own personal happiness?”

The question caught her off guard. Of all the people in the world to say such a thing, her father was the last one she ever expected to hear it from. If he had known happiness in his life, he had been excellent at hiding it.

“There’s nothing for you here,” he continued, minding the gap her silence had caused.

Sango frowned. “Osaka is not exactly a wasteland – ” she argued, unable to hold back her shock and irritation at the bald, blunt statement.

“– but it’s not Tokyo, either,” her father cut in. “Stay there, and make your life…with or without your young man.”

Sango swallowed hard as she heard the click of the phone hanging up at the other end. Her father’s final comments had completely floored her; any other time she’d had this very same “leave-or-come-back” conversation with her parents, they had backed away from making any sort of solid pronouncement, one way or the other. On the one hand, she was frustrated by the idea that they thought she was better off staying with Karanousuke. On the other hand…her father knew her very well; in telling her not to come back, he had sensed the reasons why she wanted to return in the first place.

Was it too much to ask, that her family band together in this time of mourning?

Or was it simply too late?

The abrupt slam of a door brought Sango back to the present. Warily, she glanced over her shoulder towards the door of the bedroom, unsure of who had breached the entrance to her suite without her permission. She’d only been back for a few days, arriving unannounced – and unaccompanied by Karanousuke.

_If it was him, so help him God –_

Sango’s wrath settled as her best friend sauntered into the room instead, her eyes wide with surprise as she took in its chaotic state. “Whoa,” Akiko breathed, her jaw hanging open.

“How did you get in?” Sango asked, tossing her phone to the bedside table. She rose and greeted her friend with a hug.

Akiko grinned as they pulled apart. “I have my ways,” she replied, a mischievous sparkle in her eye. She glanced about again, her brow furrowing slightly. “What’s going on?”

“I’m leaving,” Sango replied simply. “I’m going home – for good.”

“Whoa,” Akiko intoned again, allowing her purse to slide down her arm and land in a heap on the floor. “I can understand your desire to leave this place” – she indicated their surroundings with the sweep of her arm – “but the _whole city_? Really?”

 _Why is this such a hard concept for everyone to grasp?_ Sango asked herself. “Believe me, I can’t put enough space between Karanousuke and me,” she muttered in response, folding her arms over her chest.

“True,” Akiko conceded, “but he’s not the only reason you’re here.” She gave her friend a pointed look.

“Oh, Akiko, I’m going to miss you,” Sango cried, throwing her arms around her friend and hugging her tightly. “You’re the best friend I could’ve ever asked for. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you – I’ve never had anyone like you.”

Akiko returned her embrace with equal fervor. “You’ve never had anyone like Miroku, either,” she replied shrewdly.

_Miroku…_

The name alone was enough to conjure warm memories – of violet eyes, of quiet words, of sensuous caresses, fiery kisses, and passionate sex. A hot flush rose up the back of her neck as the memory of him momentarily enveloped her, pushing aside everything else. If ever a man had given her everything she wanted and needed, it was him.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Sango sighed, shaking herself from her reverie. “I never really had him.”

“And if you believe that,” Akiko proclaimed, planting on hand on her hip, “you’re delusional.”

Sango turned away, her eyes falling to the floor near the bed. It was all too easy to recall that night, the emotional rollercoaster she’d unwillingly ridden – and dragged him on. She’d been so hurt, so angry, so numb – it was by pure instinct that she sought him out, knowing he could comfort her without words, without judgment. He did all of that and more – in his comfort, she found strength; in his solace, she found desire. All too easily could she see them now, in her mind’s eye, cloaked in the dying darkness of the night, pushing the boundaries of their fragile relationship. He’d made her feel so _good_ , so _light_ , so _beautiful_ , so _strong_ –

“I didn’t deserve him,” she choked out, pushing past the lump suddenly lodged in her throat.

“This isn’t a matter of ‘deserving,’” Akiko said, her voice soft but firm. “This is a matter of _needing_. Of _wanting_. Of _yearning_.”

Each emphasized word roused a new, explicit, seductive memory to the surface, pulling at something akin to longing deep in her core. For weeks, she’d fought these memories of Miroku, forcing herself to concentrate on her family, on her brother, on staying away from Takeda – anything to keep from reliving the horrible way she’d dismissed her lover mere hours after inviting him into her world.

“How can I want him when I don’t know anything about him?” Sango protested, just as much to herself as to her friend.

“You know the most important thing…” Akiko responded, allowing her words to trail off suggestively.

Sango flushed hotly, whirling around. “There’s more to a relationship than just sex, you know!” she snapped, unsure of whether her terse tone arose from irritation or embarrassment – or both.

Akiko merely gazed back her, unimpressed with this flurry of emotion. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

Sango flushed again under her friend’s thoughtful study. No one in the world knew her better than this girl who stood before her. For the last three years, they had grown closer than sisters, sharing secrets, celebrations, frustrations, and everything in between. She couldn’t hide much from her friend, not when she pushed others away with her sharp tongue, not when she erected her defensive walls, not even when she allowed her emotions to shut down completely and turned inward.

“You know the way he makes you feel,” Akiko finally said. “You know the way he treats you. You know that you believe, deep in your soul, that he’s _the one_ – because you know how hard it would’ve been to leave Karanousuke and all he could offer you otherwise.” She grasped Sango’s shoulders, looking her straight in the eye. “Isn’t that worth fighting for? Isn’t that worth _staying_ for?”

Sango bit her lip, pushing back the tears that threatened to well up behind her eyes. “Even if it was – how could he ever take me back, after the way I rejected him?”

Akiko’s eyes narrowed. “Does that mean you realize it was a mistake?” she pressed.

Sango shrugged. “It means he deserved more than that – he deserved better.” She closed her eyes, his final words reverberating through her head: _One day, you’re going to realize you deserve to be happy, Sango_. “He still does.”

“Sango…”

Her heart clenched in her chest. _I had my chance, and I blew it._ She shook her head violently as she turned her eyes upon her friend once more. “I’ve had enough pain to last me a lifetime already,” she said. “I don’t think I could deal with any more.


	12. Love’s Labour’s Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What would you wish for if you had one chance?” – B.o.B, “[Airplanes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kn6-c223DUU)”

It had been two months.

Or, more precisely, it had been eight weeks, three days, four hours, and eighteen minutes…

…not that he was keeping track.

It had been two months since he’d seen her. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t thought about her, or was unaware of what was going on with her – it was merely a measurement, the length of time that had passed since he’d _seen_ her, in stark living color, and spoken to her.

It was the length of time his life had been held in suspension, hope and optimism warring with desolation and defeat. Time, it seemed, wasn’t the cure-all everyone made out to be. The blow of her rejection had softened in the interim, but it had never gone away completely…and that worried him.

It had never taken this long – to make up, or to break up.

Miroku sighed, setting aside the schedule he’d been wrangling for the last hour. The busy summer season was winding down, which meant the annual tussle over who and how and when he’d have to start cutting staff hours was only beginning. He didn’t like having to let people go, especially not people as loyal and dedicated as his team. They had his back, and he’d needed it, these last few months.

One by one, they all began to notice the changes in him – his withdrawal from the social aspect of bartending; his sudden, intense interest in the news; his struggle to concentrate on anything that required his attention for more than five minutes at a time. They noticed the ever present grey circles under his eyes, the way his clothes were hanging a bit looser on his frame.

They noticed. They understood, once someone put two and two together and word got around. Some of them (mostly the waitresses) even sympathized with his plight.

But one thing they were all united in was anger.

 _Nobody_ fucked him over and got away with it, so far as they were concerned.

They rallied around him, fiercely protective. Some of the old-timers had been there since the days of uncle Mushin, and had seen him through the crisis of his death in much the same way. Then, as now, they shielded him as best they could, keeping bad news as far away from him as was possible, no matter what form it took – shakedown rackets, small time dealers, or pretty escorts looking for a place to set up shop.

They were his staff, but they were not his friends. Their unwavering support was silent, mostly conveyed via looks, nods, and the occasional punch in the arm or squeeze of the shoulder. Not even Mei, the forward newbie waitress who’d propositioned him in the aftermath, had tried to talk to him again. He carried the weight of this internal war as an everlasting knot in his stomach. He’d tried everything to let go of it – meditation, therapeutic journaling, even the pure escapism of sleep – but it persisted, lodging deep in his core.

He loved her. He mourned for her.

It was impossible _not_ to know the status of her brother’s case. Her jackass fiancé – son of the police commissioner, VIP of the corporate business world – had launched an all-out media blitz, vowing to leave no stone unturned – nor criminal unquestioned – in the matter of the missing boy’s death. The coverage was intense, especially in the print media, with daily stories exploring one theory or another. The boy’s arms had been covered in sleeves of tattoos, including the thick black bands of unmistakable yakuza origin. He’d been a blood slave of one gang or another; to read Takeda’s confident words, it was merely “a matter of time” before the murderers were tracked down and brought to justice.

As ruthless and sensationalistic as the media coverage had been, she had been spared, for the most part – another of prince Takeda’s edicts, no doubt. Miroku’s heart always pumped a little faster when he came across her name, or saw a picture of her in the paper. A photograph from the memorial service had run weeks before, showcasing the family gathered at the burial site. Sango had been kneeling beside the grave, one hand outstretched over the freshly turned dirt, determination glittering in the depths of her eyes. He’d clipped that one, keeping it hidden under the piles of papers on his desk at the bar, pulling it out whenever he needed to see her. It was a striking composition, capturing the expression that had graced her lovely visage the first time they’d ever met. It was the way he preferred to think of her, and remember her – so strong, so resolute, so indomitable – instead of the way she’d looked the last time he’d seen her – so hurt, so vulnerable…so _alone_.

He uncovered that picture now, spreading it out on top of his papers along with the accompanying article. There was an almost desperate tinge to the coverage, as if Takeda was doing this as much to impress her – or maybe make it up to her? – as he was any lofty goal of truth or justice. Miroku held no deep regard for the man, but at the same time, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate him. He remembered the absolute comfort of her rooms: the exquisitely appointed furniture, the neverending wardrobe, the refrigerator and cabinets, chock full of gourmet and fresh foods. He could offer her every creature comfort known to man, as well as some level of security – and the peace of mind that came with that.

All in all, perhaps putting up with a dickweed was a tiny price to pay for all of that.

A sharp knock sounded on Miroku’s door, quickly bringing him out of his thoughts. He shoved the article back under the stacks of work before bidding entrance to his visitor.

“Sorry, Miroku,” Mei apologized, sticking her head in the room. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but she just won’t go away.”

Miroku’s brows shot up. “She?” he repeated, already halfway out of his seat.

Mei rolled her eyes. “Miss Sex on the Beach,” she replied warily. “She kept banging on the door for a solid five minutes. I don’t know what she wants, but she couldn’t be dissuaded.” She shrugged sheepishly. “She says she won’t leave without speaking to you.”

“Oh,” he replied, pushing past the lump in his throat, willing his pulse to slow down. “All right. I’ll be right out.”

Mei nodded, closing the door as she left. Miroku clenched his hands into fists at his sides, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before leaving the room. 

He emerged from the hallway at the back of the front room, advancing on steady feet towards his finely polished bar. It was early afternoon; his first shift crew was milling about, pulling down chairs and wiping off tables. None of them so much as glanced at him as he passed, but from the looks of his visitor, they had thoroughly raked her over the coals before granting access to their boss.

Akiko stood beside the bar, her arms folded nervously across her chest, her jaw set in annoyance. Her eyes blazed pure fire as they landed on him, and she tightened the brace of her body, as if preparing for another hostile confrontation. “We have to talk,” she announced without preamble as he moved within earshot.

Miroku shrugged. “I don’t know any other men to introduce to you, Akiko,” he replied, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ve already made your way through the entirety of my staff.”

“Very funny,” she bit off, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not here about that. I’m here about Sango.”

Miroku leveled a thoughtful stare on her. “Maybe we should take this outside,” he suggested.

“With pleasure,” Akiko responded, her tone still clipped. She glanced over her shoulder as they headed for the front door. “I don’t remember your staff being such assholes.”

Miroku ignored the pointed remark, crossing his arms loosely over his chest as he stood a few paces away from her on the sidewalk, the sun beating down relentlessly. “So what’s going on?” he asked after a moment.

Akiko’s stance mirrored his. “She’s leaving,” she said simply.

Miroku nearly choked. “What do you mean, she’s leaving?” he sputtered.

Akiko stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I _mean_ , she’s leaving. She’s going home, to Osaka.”

Miroku’s mind was reeling. Of all the things he anticipating hearing, this was not exactly at the top of the list. “What about her fiancé?”

“ _Ex_ -fiancé,” Akiko corrected him. “He’s doing everything he can to get her to stay, obviously. Don’t you follow the news?”

Miroku dismissed the derisive comment. “So what _about_ her brother’s case?”

Akiko shrugged. “She can follow it just as easily from Osaka as she can from Tokyo,” she replied. “It’s not like they’re telling her anything they aren’t also telling her parents.” She gave him a pointed look. “And besides, what other reason would she have to stay in the city?”

Miroku rocked back on his heels. “That’s a good question.”

“Dude, what’s your damage?” Akiko burst out, throwing her arms in the air. “ _Come on_. Did you, or did you not, sleep with her?”

As she seemed to be waiting for an answer, Miroku nodded in response.

“Do you, or do you not, have feelings for her?”

He nodded again, more cautiously this time.

“Then why haven’t you contacted her?” Akiko wailed, exasperation in full bloom. “Why haven’t you seen her, why haven’t you talked to her?”

Miroku frowned. “I didn’t think either would exactly be welcome at this point,” he replied.

“She’s _miserable_!” Akiko fairly screamed, as if being louder would somehow help her cause. “She’s been miserable for months! She broke it off with her _ex-_ fiancé! What more do you _need_?”

Miroku shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said, his tone just as even as Akiko’s was hysterical. “I’ve already offered what I can to her, and she rejected it. How would I know her mind has changed, if she’s given me no indication otherwise?”

Akiko heaved a deep breath, closing her eyes to refocus herself. It was obvious the wheels in her head were turning, trying to figure out another way to state her argument. Miroku was impressed with her evident, if bordering on strident, compassion and empathy for her best friend. He had to give her credit for trying.

Finally, Akiko’s gaze lifted to meet his. “Do you love her?” she asked softly.

The question caught him off guard. Miroku swallowed hard. He’d never admitted his feelings to anyone else; hell, he’d only just started admitting them to _himself_. “Yes,” he replied, his tone stronger than he expected. “Yes, I love her.”

The knot in his stomach eased a fraction.

Akiko, on the other hand, appeared anything but shocked by his answer. “And do you want what’s best for her?”

“Of course,” he said, exhaling sharply.

“Then why won’t you _fight_ for her?” she pressed, fisting her hands in front of her.

He shrugged. “Because I can’t make her happy.”

That brought Akiko up short. “What do you mean?” she asked, as if it was patently obvious the opposite was true.

It was Miroku’s turn to take a deep, thoughtful breath. This was something he’d turned over in his mind during many restless nights of sleep. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, from everything I’ve been through, it’s this: the only person who can make you happy? Is yourself.”

Akiko looked as if the wind had been knocked out of her sails completely. “I don’t understand,” she finally admitted. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with fighting for what you want.”

“I _want_ her to be happy,” Miroku assured her. “ _I want that_ more than anything in this world. I can love her, and I can support her, but I can’t change her. Only she can do that.” 

He took another deep breath, preparing to say the words he’d hoped he’d never have to vocalize, the words he feared so much he literally choked even to think of them.

“If she has to go to Osaka to do that, so be it.”

Akiko could only shake her head in vehement disagreement, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. 

Miroku stared at her, feeling her frustration with the situation in kind, but at the same time, powerless to stop it. Sango was stubborn – beautifully, willfully stubborn – and she wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. He couldn’t bear the idea of being with her for his own sake, _for his own love_ , if he knew she would be miserable all the while. She was strong – if her decisions since were any indication, her brother’s death hadn’t broken her. She was halfway healed, and far be it from him to be the one who was going to stand in her way.

Still, he hated to see a woman cry. Perhaps he could offer Akiko a bit of commiseration. “Do you know why my staff was so nasty to you in there?” he queried.

Akiko shook her head, digging through her purse for a tissue.

“It’s because I’ve walked around this place for the last two months, absolutely miserable because I can’t be with her,” he replied. “But I _can’t_ be with her until she’s ready to be with me.”

Akiko sniffled, wiping her nose. “I think you’re making a mistake, Miroku,” she choked out. “I’m afraid – I’m afraid if she leaves, she’s never going to come back.”

Miroku shrugged helplessly. The knot in his stomach had gotten progressively tighter as the conversation wore on, forcing him to contemplate scenarios he never wanted to contemplate. “Then I guess it was never meant to be.”

_And if it was never meant to be…maybe one day, I’ll figure out a way to get over it._


	13. A Shot in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.” – George Bernard Shaw

Sango sighed, shifting the open box awkwardly in her arms as she walked down the hall. Finally, _finally_ , she had finished her packing. It was almost surreal to see so many boxes and suitcases stacked neatly in the foyer of her suite, as if she was leaving an overstayed vacation instead of three years of _life_. Even with her redoubled resolve to move home, and the extra motivation of getting as far away from her doting ex-fiancé Takeda as possible, she felt as if she was moving through mud, slogging toward a goal she was none too excited to meet. Yet, ever pragmatic, she realized that sometimes the only way to see something through was by sheer force of will.

She tipped the box to the ground in front of Akiko’s door. Her best friend lived a few floors down in the same hotel, and had tastes far more suited to this sort of lifestyle, hence leaving her those things she didn’t wish to take with her. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door opened. 

“Hi,” Akiko greeted her, her tone a touch stilted. The two hadn’t really spoken since their last encounter a few weeks earlier, when Sango had announced her departure.

“Hey,” Sango replied, a weak smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I thought you might like these things,” she continued, stooping to pick up the box once more.

Akiko pulled away from the door. “So you’re still intent on doing this, eh?” she mused, wandering back inside her suite. She picked up a cup of coffee, taking a sip as she flipped through the newspaper.

“Yes,” Sango replied, following her inside and leaving the box on the side table in the foyer. She watched her friend for a moment, heaviness settling in her chest. She hated the awkwardness that settled between them, but felt helpless all the same. If there was one person she didn’t want to lose from her life, one person who meant almost as much to her as her grieving family, it was this girl.

“You understand why I’m leaving…don’t you?” Sango asked, unable to hide the uncertainty in her voice. No matter how strong her will, it was always nice to have reassurance.

Akiko shrugged, refolding the newspaper as she turned to face her friend. “Yeah,” she remarked, holding up the front page.

 _CHILD MURDER INVESTIGATION CLOSING IN ON SUSPECT_ , screamed the headline.

Sango sighed, taking the paper from her friend. _Typical Karanousuke_ , she grumbled silently. _Kohaku wasn’t a child when he died – and he wasn’t an animal, either_ , she added as her eyes scanned the page. Her brother’s murder was being treated like a gruesome spectacle in the media, with sensationalistic ties to yakuza and mafia families being bandied about, not to mention all the attention being given to ritualistic serial killers and depraved pedophiles, interviewed from their prison cages to help shape “theories of the crime.”

She didn’t want “what-if” scenarios. She wanted the truth, and none of this was helping.

“Do you have any more information about it?” Akiko asked, gesturing to the page. “Beyond all this speculation, at least?”

Sango sighed. “Not really,” she replied. “That’s the most frustrating part. This whole media blitz schtick is pretty much Karanousuke’s way of keeping all eyes on the prize, as it were.”

“Or, at least, keeping all eyes on _him_ as the ringleader of this crusade,” Akiko said wryly. “It seems to me, he’s doing this all for you.”

“And if he is,” Sango swiftly replied, “it’s having just the opposite intended effect.” She shook her head. “His father has taken on this case personally. He still gives my parents daily debriefings – and believe me, what he’s telling us? He has had the courtesy _not_ to pass on to his son.”

“Smart man,” Akiko remarked with a smile.

“You don’t get to be commissioner by being stupid,” Sango agreed. She tossed aside the offending rag. “So, do you want to go through these things, or not?”

Akiko shot her an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me? You have things I could only _dream_ of owning. Tossing them away would practically be criminal!” 

Sango’s smile was genuine as she watched her friend empty the box onto a nearby sofa, oohing and aahing as she picked up each fine article of clothing. It seemed some of the tension surrounding them had lifted, and that heartened her. Maybe their friendship _would_ survive this after all…

“I can’t believe you’re giving me these things,” Akiko bubbled, hugging a cashmere sweater to her chest. “Are you sure you don’t want them?”

Sango shook her head, picking up a pale pink silk sundress. “They were never really me,” she commented, wrinkling her nose. “Give me jeans and a t-shirt any day.”

Akiko eyed her critically. “Yes, I can see you’ve moved straight back into your grubbies stage,” she noted with an exaggerated sigh, “as if three years of high fashion never happened.” She paused, lifting the back of Sango’s shirt off the waistband of her jeans. “Well, _almost_ ,” she amended with a grin.

Sango pushed her hands away. “These just fit me better!” she protested with a laugh. “You try finding flattering pants with this body shape!” Even with all of the beautiful, fashionable clothes Karanousuke had lavished upon her during their relationship, Sango’s body image had never really improved; she still felt like a tall, gangly, awkward teenager.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Akiko mocked with a giggle. “That’s a first world problem if I’ve ever heard one. Just accept that maybe your tastes have matured, in spite of your conscience.”

“Ha,” Sango muttered grudgingly.

The girls continued to joke and tease as they went through the box of clothes. It was a good reminder for Sango, of just how much she enjoyed Akiko’s company, especially when the mood was light. In so many ways, they were absolute opposites – she never would’ve imagined, when they first sat next to each other in class five years ago, that this girl would’ve been her absolute best friend in the world.

And yet, she was. Even in the sad times, there was no one she’d rather have in her corner.

“So,” Akiko said, clearing her throat as the clothes sorting came to an end, “when are you leaving?”

“Friday,” Sango replied softly, her eyes falling to her lap.

“Wow,” Akiko breathed. “Two days – that’s quick.”

Sango nodded. “In the morning. It was the only time I could book the _Nozomi_ shinkansen,” she added, naming the nonstop bullet train service.

Akiko suddenly threw her arms around Sango’s shoulders, hugging her tightly, taking her friend by surprise.

“Hey, now, what’s all this?” Sango sputtered, closing her arms around her friend. “It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again! I’m just going to Osaka, not moving to Russia or Europe forever!”

“I know,” Akiko sniffled, “but Osaka might as well be as far away as Russia. After living a few floors down from you and seeing you every day for three years, I don’t know what I’m going to do when you’re not around.”

“Call, text, email,” Sango replied breezily as she pulled away, listing off the various means of communication Akiko was so fond of. “I’m sure you’ll find _some_ way to keep me updated.”

Akiko leveled an assessing stare at her friend. “Even about Miroku?”

A slice of sharp pain scored Sango’s spine. “You’ve talked to him?”

Akiko nodded slowly, unable to decide if the question was accusatory or simply curious. “I figured he had a right to know you were leaving.”

When Sango closed her eyes, she could picture him perfectly – the first time she met him, the moment she told him her brother died, the morning after their amazing night together, a culmination of grief and need and desire – and the heaviness from earlier knotted in her chest. Everything she had shared with him came flooding back: memories, conversations, confidences, embraces, kisses, and so much more…

These last few months had been so fucking hard. Would his presence have made a difference?

Would it now?

“Did he…say anything?” she finally managed, still unable to lift her gaze from her lap.

“He said a _lot_ of things,” Akiko answered. Upon seeing Sango’s distressed expression, she hastened to add, “He said he wants you to be happy, even if you have to go back to Osaka to find it.”

“Oh.” Sango felt absolutely crushed. She really _had_ blown it – perhaps two months with nary a word from him should’ve been a clue. His final words echoed through her mind: _“One day, you’re going to realize you deserve to be happy, Sango.”_

Here, again, were those same cruel words.

Akiko took her shoulders. “He loves you,” she began, “he’s just not going to fight you on this.”

“How do you know?” Sango asked, shrugging off her friend’s embrace.

Akiko bristled. “Because he told me – and I believe him.” She paused, taking in the warring expressions flitting across her friend’s features. “Go and see him before you leave,” she urged. “If you don’t know how you feel about him, you owe yourself that at the very least.”

“I _know_ how I feel about him,” Sango replied archly, feeling her defenses rise around her embarrassment and insecurity. _I just don’t know how I feel about this._

“Then go anyway,” Akiko advised with a sigh of resignation. “Even if it’s only to say goodbye.”


	14. Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When making your choice in life, do not neglect to live.” – Samuel Johnson

Slowly, dimly, Miroku became aware that someone was watching him. He furrowed his brow, concentrating on the order he was currently working on, adding rum to one glass and vodka to the other with twin, expert flicks of his wrists. He rocked back on his heels, replacing the liquor bottles on the shelf at his back before finishing off the cocktails with a quick stir. He lifted the glasses, placing them on the waiting tray with a curt nod of his head, and swung his gaze to his left.

“What?” he grunted, annoyed, narrowing his eyes as he wiped down the space in front of him.

The house DJ, Hiroshi, leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “You’re _killing_ me, man,” he drawled. “I’ve been sitting here for the last ten minutes, and I don’t think you’ve looked up once.” He clucked his tongue despairingly as he sent a covert glance down the length of the bar. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Miroku followed his line of vision, quirking a brow when he eyes landed on a gorgeous woman. She was sitting tall in her seat, leaning forward with her elbows on the bar as she toyed with her gin and tonic. Her eyes were dark, half-hidden behind waves of brown hair, her ruby-red lips a perfect match to her low-cut dress. She caught the guys’ lingering stares, curving her mouth in a coy, come-hither smile before taking a long sip of her drink.

She was the sort of woman that, once upon a time, he wouldn’t have hesitated to flirt with – and probably would’ve taken home at the end of the night.

Hiroshi gave a low whistle. “Damn,” he commented, “she’s one foxy chick.” He looked back at his friend. “And she’s been eyeing you like a prize stallion all night.”

Miroku shrugged, turning his attention back to the counter space in front of him. When he found no fresh orders, he turned to his wall of liquor, picking up the recently used bottles and settling them back in their places. Thursday nights were steady, but slow, even this late into the evening. Even so, he wasn’t really in the mood to chat, with Hiroshi or with some random girl who had stationed herself at the end of his bar.

His pointed withdrawal from the conversation didn’t deter the DJ, however. “Oh, come on, man,” he said as Miroku wandered his way once more, “you can’t tell me you aren’t at least a _little_ curious.” 

Miroku rolled his eyes, not even bothering to turn around. He fidgeted with the rows of bottles, running his hands along the cool glass, turning each to face label-out.

Fresh understanding dawned across Hiroshi’s features. “Oh, I get it,” he announced. “You’re still hung up on that Sango broad. Dude, it’s been _months_ – time to cut the cord already!”

Miroku turned slightly, sending a fierce glare in his so-called friend’s direction. “Don’t I pay you do to something other than hang around at the bar and make ill-advised observations about my life?” he asked coolly.

Hiroshi grinned, apparently pleased that his comment had struck a nerve. “Haven’t you ever heard that the best way to get over one chick is to get under another one?”

“Oh, please,” Miroku retorted. _It’s not like that…_ Even if it had been awhile since he’d gotten laid, it wasn’t necessarily due to lack of desire or opportunity. He’d led that life once, after all, and it wouldn’t have been hard to slip back into that mindset. But no matter how pretty the girl or welcome the distraction, no one ever measured up to Sango’s standard. She had been more than just a pretty face – much more.

Hiroshi’s eyes slid back to the girl in the ruby-red dress. “Listen,” he began, glancing back at Miroku before digging into one of his pockets, “I understand. Maybe you feel guilty about just helping yourself – relationships have that tendency to fuck with your head.”

 _Or maybe I’m just not interested_ , Miroku mused silently, eyeing his friend with no small amount of suspicion.

“But I know someone,” Hiroshi continued, “who makes it her business to help heartbroken men move on with their lives.” He produced a white business card with a flourish, holding it out for Miroku to take. “Maybe you should give her a call.”

Miroku took a step forward, running his eyes over the embossed print but declining to take the card. After a moment, he looked up. “Is this a joke?” he muttered, his tone implying he didn’t find it amusing in the least.

Hiroshi shrugged. “Hey, man, I don’t know your tastes,” he replied, tucking the card back in his pocket. “I just thought I’d offer – maybe you’re the type who likes to pay.”

Not even in the most desperate moments of his frustrated teenage years at the monastery had he ever considered soliciting a prostitute – what made anyone think he’d consider such a thing now? Hiroshi had been in his employ for less than a year, but if he was half as observant as he thought he was, he should’ve picked up on that little tidbit by now.

Mercifully, Miroku was saved from responding by one of the waitresses, who placed a new stack of drink orders on the bar in front of him. “Hey, DJ, can we make with the music?” she teased, elbowing Hiroshi as she slid into the free seat beside him while she waited. “Folks are falling asleep with that shit you left on the system.”

Hiroshi opened his mouth to reply, but Miroku shut it with a warning look. “Please,” he intoned sharply, making it clear the word was not a request, but a command, turning his attention to the orders. He set aside his irritation as he made the drinks, concentrating the entirety of his focus on to the ingredients and measurements before him.

“Hiroshi’s an ass,” the waitress spoke up as he placed the last of the drinks on her tray. Miroku glanced up and realized it was one of the girls who’d been around since Mushin had run the place. “Not all of us think you need to hit the first thing that shows interest.” She gave him a patient smile and patted his hand. “Take your time. Love isn’t something you just _get over_.” 

“Thanks,” he murmured, squeezing her hand before she launched back into the crowd. He checked on his regulars nearby, refilling their glasses of beer and whiskey, before settling back in front of the taps with a rack of still-drying glasses. The girl in the red dress had given up, leaving a few bills on the bar and huffily marching past him, and Miroku felt himself finally relax a bit.

It was wearing to maintain the façade day after day, night after night. It was bad enough that his employees knew how badly the breakup with Sango was affecting him, even nearly three months on, but now he realized he was slipping even more, letting total strangers like the girl in the red dress spy his vulnerability. 

Not for the first time did he wonder if he’d done the right thing, made the right decision, said the right words. It was so fucking _hard_ to be apart from her, to face the possibility that it was probably forever, to live with the knowledge that his last words to her had been bitter and angry, that he couldn’t help but second guess himself. How often had he replayed his encounter with Akiko over and over again in his mind, examining each word, each reaction, each twist of emotion, each turn of logic? And yet, no matter how much he wished differently, he always came to the same conclusion – because deep in the core of his being, he knew he’d been right the first time.

He loved her. He missed her.

Be he couldn’t force her – to be happy, to bend to his will, to accept what he felt for her unconditionally.

_The hardest part of love is letting go._

It was one of the hardest principles for his father to come to grips with; indeed, it is what ultimately drove him down the extreme path he took, moving himself and his small son into an isolated monastery following his wife’s death. It seemed what had once haunted his father was now haunting him – perhaps it would always be their curse.

He wanted nothing more than to be able to move on, in one direction or another, but he couldn’t – for better or for worse, he’d left that decision in someone else’s hands.

Someone he wished to see one last time, if only to accept the finality of his fate.

Someone who would apparently deny him that chance, wanting nothing more than to leave this nightmare chapter of her life behind…not that he could blame her.

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to look up at that moment, but he did, his eyes wandering over the crowd that had gathered in the middle of the room, moving to the live, pulsating rhythm that thrummed through the place. The din of conversation lifted alongside the beat, filling his ears and blocking out his melancholy thoughts. From the corner of his eye he saw the door of the establishment open and close and, idly, he swiveled his head.

Only to nearly drop the glass he was drying.

“Hey, man,” one of his regulars called from somewhere in the vicinity of his left, “you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Miroku ignored the teasing remark, focusing instead of pushing air out of his lungs, past the lump in his throat he could only assume was his heart. Blindly, he put down the glass and the towel, moving out from behind the bar even as he eyes were still trained on a point in the crowd. He felt like he was moving through mud, towards an unreachable destination, only realizing after the fact that he was pushing people out of his way as he pressed forward into the sea of swaying bodies.

Finally, he stopped, reaching out to make sure it wasn’t a dream – but no, the arm he’d captured was very real, very warm…and very much attached to Sango.

She whirled around, her eyes growing wide and her lips parting as they came face to face for the first time since parting all those months ago. She spoke, but the words didn’t make it from her mouth to his ears. It didn’t matter, because he was unable to tear his eyes away from her, roving down the length of her frame and back. She looked different – dressed casually in jeans, a crimson-colored shirt, and black hoodie, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail – but his heart would’ve recognized her anywhere.

For a moment, they could do nothing more than simply stare at each other; the next thing he knew, her lips were pressed to his, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body achingly, desperately, _searingly_ close. And he felt…he _felt_ , for the first time in months, like his senses had awakened after a long slumber, like each sensation was new and different, fresh and exciting, one piling atop the next in a neverending cascade. He became aware of the way her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, the soft crush of her breasts against his chest, the way her hips cradled perfectly into his. For a moment, he lost himself to his memories, wrapping his arms around her and returning the unexpected greeting with equal fervor, nearly overwhelmed with the desire to press her against the nearest available flat surface and pick up where they left off.

But he couldn’t quite let himself go completely; questions lingered in the back of his brain – _why was she here? what did she want? was this hello or goodbye?_ – mixing and meshing with the memories that raced across his mind’s eye: 

– kissing her – 

– lying naked beneath her – 

– the look in her eyes when she _felt it_ , just like him, that connection of fear and desire and fate – 

“Sango,” he whispered against her mouth, pulling her even closer as the crowd danced around them. He could feel her breath on his lips, hot and hard, and the race of her heartbeat against his chest, galloping in time with his own. “Sango, I – ”

“I’m leaving,” she broke in, the words slicing through his haze of surprise and need and lust.

He opened his eyes, his gaze finding hers. She stared at him plaintively, her big brown eyes filled with confusion and pain.

He realized in an instant that she hadn’t meant to do this – she hadn’t meant to kiss him, or find herself wrapped up in him like this.

Nevertheless, she didn’t let him go, her body still pressed to his in an intimate embrace.

“I’m leaving,” she repeated, her voice stronger, more resonant.

His eyes slipped shut as he rested his forehead against hers, tightening his hold around her waist. _I know_ , he wanted to say, _I understand_ , but the words were lodged in his throat. Waves of sorrow and raw agony washed through him – even if he wasn’t surprised by this twist of cruel fate, even if he had perhaps resigned himself to it long ago, it still hurt.

Now that he had her in his arms again, he wasn’t sure if he could ever let her go.

“There’s just one problem,” she said, breaking into his thoughts once more.

He hugged her closer. “And what’s that?” he mused, not completely sure he wanted to know.

She took a deep breath, her nails digging into the soft skin at the juncture of his neck and his shoulders. “I want to be with you,” she exhaled in a rush.

He pulled away slightly, opening his eyes and staring at her once again. Their gazes locked; silently, he assessed her, turning her words over and over again in his mind as he thought about what he knew of her – her passion, her stubbornness, her willfullness. If anything, her expression had only grown more troubled with each passing moment, the internal war she waged surfacing at the last. He could see it now, writ large across her face, the lines of her body – how she battled between need and uncertainty, between honor and desire, between duty and love.

 _Here it is, then_ , he thought, his heart pumping wildly. Seven little words that could make him or break him, that could – that _would_ – alter the course of his life forever, if only he could muster the courage to utter them – 

“So what are you going to do?”


	15. The Agony of Ecstasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Happiness is just an illusion, filled with sadness and confusion.” – Jimmy Ruffin, “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted”

Sango cracked her eyes open, taking in the gray haze of the dawning, dreary morning. She sighed, shifting restlessly, adjusting the blanket draped over her shoulders. She’d barely slept the night before, unable to quell the thoughts that raced through her mind, last-minute second-guessing of her decision to stay or go. Ultimately, she’d stuck by her plans, pressing forward through the doubt and uncertainty, doing what she knew she needed to do in order to finally close this chapter of her life.

She sat alone in her car on the _Nozomi_ shinkansen, her luggage securely stowed under the seat opposite her, her legs propped up on the cushion across the way. She gazed out the window, watching the scenery fly by, the Japanese countryside blossoming out as far as the eye could see.

She wished for sleep, to escape from her tumultuous memories – but the comfort of slumber eluded her.

It had been three months.

Three months since the shocking revelations that had changed her life for good.

Three months since the entirety of her world had tilted on its axis; since the events that had propelled her away from a steady, solid life she’d hesitantly begun to call her own.

Three months since she’d been home – if she even knew what ‘home’ was anymore.

She sighed, her gaze falling away from the window as she shifted under the blanket again, curling her legs beneath her and burrowing into her seat. She thought she’d come to grips with what her life had become – after all, she’d spent _five years_ in pursuit of her missing brother, pouring her heart and soul into the quest to find out what had happened to him. Her own wants and needs had taken a backseat, forever tinged with guilt and sorrow and self-admonishment for ever craving comfort when she knew her lost sibling wasn’t at peace.

She’d tried to come to terms with it. One little mistake had shattered her family for good; five long years had ended in absolute agony, with the discovery of Kohaku’s beaten and bruised body abandoned in an alleyway like an afterthought. She still had nightmares of that day, of going to the morgue to identify him, of seeing what had become of the sweet, innocent little boy who used to beg for her attention when they were kids. That was her punishment – knowing the last time she’d ever lay eyes on him would be so cold, so unrelentingly callous and cruel. Not even surrounding herself with pictures and memories of happier times following the funeral could wipe that final, horrible image from of her mind.

That memory would forever be intertwined with another – the end of her long-term relationship, right on the cusp of marriage. She’d been _so close_ to having it all, to becoming the wife of the police commissioner’s son and ascending to the heights of power and class and wealth afforded such a station, that hardly anyone could comprehend why she’d suddenly ended it all. How many women would’ve killed to be in her shoes, to be within grasp of such financial and personal security? To have such a loving, doting, (nearly suffocating) husband with the world at his fingertips, who could give her anything that her heart desired?

Except, of course, the one thing she truly desired – to be _loved_.

Not _owned_ , or _had_ , or _paraded around_ like a trophy or prized possession. Not showered with gifts, or shunted off on exotic vacations, or kept in the lap of fashionable luxury, or molded into the perfect little demure housewife.

She wanted love: passionate, unconditional, flaws-and-all _love_. She wanted to be held and comforted and soothed, but also to be allowed to struggle in her guilt, her misery, her melancholy. She wanted someone to lean on, someone who had strength enough to lend to her until she recovered her own. She wanted someone who knew when to challenge her stubbornness and when to give into it, instead of talking over her or through her like she barely even mattered.

And when push came to shove, Karanousuke Takeda – the eligible bachelor, the wealthy catch vied for by so many, the man who claimed to cherish her above all others – couldn’t give her what she wanted _or_ what she needed.

So she left.

She’d left everything she’d ever known and climbed onto the train that morning, heading for her future – or maybe it was her past. She’d thought she was headed home, but now, as she neared her destination, she wasn’t so sure anymore.

Everything had changed in the wake of Kohaku’s death, and she was still trying to piece the shattered fragments back together.

The train glided into the station, coming to a shuttering, if silent, halt. Sango lingered in her compartment, idly watching as her fellow passengers gathered their belongings and shuffled into the aisle, murmuring amongst themselves as they waited to exit the train. She stayed rooted in place even after they were gone, long enough for one of the conductors to come and knock on the glass door, inquiring if she was awake.

With a solemn nod, she made to move, stretching her arms and legs out of their cramped positions, throwing off the blanket before finally standing up. She made quick work of the luggage ties, pulling her bags out from under the seat, securing one over her shoulder and picking up the other two as she carefully moved out into the aisle. She walked slowly, feeling as if she was moving through mud as she put one foot in front of the other. She hesitated when she came to the doorway, sunlight piercing her tired eyes as she gazed warily over the platform.

 _There’s still time_ , she thought wildly, tightening her grip on the straps of her bags. _I can turn back._

“Sango!”

But she couldn’t.

“Sango!” the voice cried again, accompanied this time by a frantic wave of arms. 

In spite of herself, Sango felt the corners of her mouth curl into a smile as she descended onto the platform, having only enough time to put her bags down before finding herself engulfed in a warm, excited embrace.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Akiko whispered in Sango’s ear, tightening the brace of her arms around her.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Sango returned, her hesitation melting away as she hugged her best friend fiercely. She’d missed her more than she’d realized – this girl had the ability to almost immediately lift her spirits.

Sango pulled away, her smile brightening as she realized that Akiko was wearing one of the sweaters she’d given her after her stormy breakup with Karanousuke. “You look better than ever,” she teased.

Akiko preened, twirling in a circle to show off her outfit. “Thank you, thank you,” she giggled. “I try – unlike _some_ people,” she added, looking wholly unimpressed as she took in Sango’s grubby ensemble.

Sango shrugged. She practically lived in jeans and t-shirts these days – and frankly, she wouldn’t have it any other way. “Oh, come on – even _you_ wouldn’t wear silk to travel,” she replied good-naturedly. 

“Eh, true,” Akiko acquiesced. She reached for one of Sango’s bags, grunting under the strain of her effort to pick it up. “What the hell did you pack?” she huffed incredulously. “Hate to break it to you, but we have rocks here in Tokyo, too, you know.”

Sango swatted her arm away playfully. “Oh, please, lightweight,” she teased, reaching for the bag and lifting it easily. She rubbed her temple with her free hand. “Did my parents make it up here okay yesterday? I’m sorry I couldn’t come with them, but my shift at work didn’t end until late.”

Akiko nodded solemnly. “Yes, your parents arrived safe and sound yesterday.” She rolled her eyes. “We managed to get them to the hotel, too, before the paparazzi horde descended.” She made a face. “Your ex is a real piece of work, you know that? Ugh.”

Sango lifted a brow. “We?” she echoed dubiously, still processing this first bit of information. No doubt Karanousuke had probably set up a press conference timed to their arrival at his hotel, so he certainly wouldn’t have been of any help in keeping her parents’ arrival for the trial under wraps. 

If not him, then…?

“We,” another voice confirmed, as a figure shifted out of Akiko’s shadow.

Sango’s mouth went dry as she looked up, gazing into a face she never thought she’d see again. “Miroku,” she choked out, dropping her bag with a heavy thump, suddenly aware of just how hard her heart was throbbing in her chest. Memories assailed her, floating unbidden to her mind – his violet eyes, his heated touch, the way he smelled and tasted and _felt inside her_ – and she flushed under the intensity of his gaze.

“Sango,” he returned, his voice full of gravel and his eyes hooded as he clasped her shoulder, making her wonder if he was remembering that night, too. Warmth flooded through her under the brush of his fingers, and she took a step closer, suddenly aching to feel his arms around her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him softly, her eyes never leaving his. “After everything that’s happened…” They had parted under murky circumstances; after nearly three months apart, she’d gone to see him, to tell him herself of her plans to return to Osaka for good. She had anticipated little more than cool apathy from him, but found raw, urgent, burning _need_ instead, an attraction so magnetic that she’d almost changed her plans right then and there.

But in the end, she couldn’t do it – she couldn’t submit him to the anguish that churned through her, or the feelings of failure that ate away at her.

So she’d left him, without ever telling him what he meant to her, or how much he’d changed her life. She didn’t deserve what he’d tried to offer her, even if it was the only thing she truly desired.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, the hand at her shoulder sliding across her neck, prickles of electricity tingling over her scalp as his fingers twined through her hair. “I know this is going to be a tough day for you, and for your folks. I just want to be here for you, as a friend…” He trailed off, leaning forward, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. “…or whatever you want me to be.”

She caught him before he could pull away, savoring the sensation of his mouth against hers, heat and longing and desire crashing through her in copious waves. For a moment, she lost herself, forgetting the reason why she’d returned in the first place, the twists and turns that had brought her to this moment, the fact that she was standing on the crowded platform at the main train station in Tokyo. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself flush against him, and allowed herself to _feel_ , for the first time since she’d left him, something other than conflict and regret.

She loved this – she _relished_ this – and she never wanted this to end.

“Uh, guys?” 

From somewhere out in the distance, Akiko’s voice broke through the intensity of the moment. Sango reluctantly broke away, opening her eyes as she turned to face her friend, unwilling to give up the magical moment completely. Her arms remained locked around Miroku’s waist, his hands still warm on her shoulders, and she felt her strength and resolve returning.

“This is great and all,” Akiko smiled, gesturing excitedly at their closeness, “but if we want to make it to court on time, well…we should’ve left five minutes ago.”

Sango sighed. “Okay,” she relented, releasing her hold on him as she spiraled back to reality. She had come back to Tokyo for a reason, after all – and it was finally time to face it, head-on. Five years of nightmares were about to end.

Finally, she was going to see for herself the man responsible for killing her brother and tearing her family apart.

~*~

Tokyo District Court, situated in the heart of downtown, was not generally the center of a raucous sea of humanity – but on that early Friday morning, the building was almost completely mobbed. Karanousuke had whipped up a media frenzy, promising the trial of the century now that a suspect had been arrested in Kohaku’s case and charges were being brought forward in federal court. Sango was unsurprised to see him giving an impromptu press conference on the courthouse steps, so calm and cool under the hot lights and flashing cameras. She tacitly ignored him as she passed him by, even though she knew he’d noticed her.

She wanted nothing to do with him or the spectacle he’d made of this entire situation. 

Miroku and Akiko shielded her from the paparazzi who lined the front corridor, all clambering for her attention as she fought her way into the crowded courtroom. Her friends were stopped at the door, barred from entering, and that was the only point at which Sango found herself nearly losing it completely.

Until the trial began, at least.

At the first break in the proceedings, Sango burst out of the courtroom, shimmering with anger and rage. She stormed past her friends, not even seeing them, pushing through one of the private exit doors of the building and landing on a little stoop. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with gulps of fresh air, trying to calm herself down.

She had been waiting for this moment for six months. She’d wanted nothing more than the chance to confront the person responsible for her brother’s murder, but she hadn’t really counted on having _this_ reaction. Just one look at the monstrous man charged with the crimes had ripped open the wound; having to sit there and watch him gaze disinterestedly around the room, a little smirk playing on his lips the entire time, as if this whole proceeding wasn’t even worth his time…

Now she knew the sort of white hot fury it took to contemplate taking another human being’s life.

The defendant, Naraku, was one of the leaders of the small but deadly Kyokuto-kai, a yakuza gang that thrived on bloodshed. He had been the mastermind of a far-reaching child abduction ring, kidnapping and smuggling children from the territory of rival gangs to be used as slaves. He wasn’t the one who had actually taken Kohaku that fateful afternoon, and he wasn’t the one who had finally slit his throat and put him out of his tortured misery nearly five years later – and for that reason alone, Sango worried. The man was pure evil made flesh, but it was clear that he rarely sullied his hands with his own dirty work. 

The door banged open behind her, but Sango didn’t bother to turn around, still gripping the handrail that lined the little alcove, a quiet exit the media didn’t have access to.

“Sango,” a voice intoned behind her, making her skin crawl.

She turned, staring stonily at her ex-fiancé. “What?” she snarled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Don’t be upset,” Karanousuke chided, stroking her arms as he gazed at her piteously.

She wrenched away from his hold. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel anymore,” she ground out.

He sighed. “I’m not trying to tell you how to feel,” he murmured, his tone overly patient as his hands came to a stop at her shoulders. “All I’m saying is, don’t let him get to you. We’ve _got_ him – the evidence against him is solid.” 

Sango snorted derisively and looked away. “I don’t believe you.”

“I wish you would,” Karanousuke said softly, reaching up to touch her face. “I’ve done all of this for you, for your family – so that you might have closure, knowing that the man who took Kohaku from you would finally face justice.”

Angry tears spilled over Sango’s cheeks. “You didn’t do this for me,” she countered venomously. “You did this for yourself.” She pushed his hands away, leveling a caustic glare at him. “How could you think that this is what I wanted? What my _parents_ wanted? We didn’t ask for this – the media frenzy and the endless questions and conspiracy theories. And for what? So you could make a sensationalistic arrest, parade a big-time yakuza around before your precious TV cameras and newspaper reporters?” 

She shook her head. “ _He didn’t even do it_ ,” she hissed. “The person who killed my brother is going to get away with it, and you’re telling me ‘don’t be upset’?”

Karanousuke took her shoulders once again. “The man who killed your brother is dead,” he said, his tone firm, almost harsh. He didn’t give her the chance to respond before barreling on. “The _reason_ that man is dead is because the man in that courtroom” – he pointed back towards the building – “ _ordered_ his killing. Just like he _ordered_ the people who kidnapped your brother to take him.”

His grip on her shoulders tightened. “Just like he _ordered_ them to beat your brother to a bloody pulp on a regular basis, and to slit his throat when he wore out his usefulness,” he finished. “Onigumo Naraku is responsible for Kohaku’s death, just like he’s responsible for countless other deaths, and I’m going to see to it that he pays for his crimes.”

Sango stared into her ex-fiancé’s hardened eyes, and wondered how she could have ever believed herself to be in love with him.

“Is there a problem here?” interrupted a new voice, shattering the tension of the moment.

Sango wrenched away from Karanousuke’s grip once more, shifting to the side and feeling a warm wave of relief wash through her as Miroku appeared in her line of vision. He strolled closer to the pair of them, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans, coming to a halt at Sango’s side and gazing trenchantly at Takeda.

Sango watched with no small amount of interest as Karanousuke sized up his rival, remembering all too well how easily he had dismissed his presence in her bed six months ago. Now, as before, he straightened to his full height, looking regal and refined as he adjusted the cufflinks that glittered on the sleeves of his three-piece suit, his expression one of bland disinterest.

“No,” he finally said, directing his answer to Miroku’s question at Sango. “I was merely attempting to comfort my dear Sango, after the troubling testimony we heard in court this morning.”

“That’s not what it looked like to me,” Miroku observed pointedly, rocking back on his heels.

Karanousuke’s eyes widened slightly, his expression frozen for a fleeting moment as he attempted to process this continued unwanted commentary. Very deliberately, he turned, casting his gaze directly at Miroku for the first time. “You obviously know not of what you speak,” he drawled.

Miroku shrugged. “I don’t know about that,” he replied easily. “I’ve kept up with the news. I’ve watched the six-month media bonanza you launched in order to win back your fiancée’s heart.” He paused, meeting Takeda’s gaze directly. “I see how much it’s failed, and how unwilling you are to accept that fact.”

Karanousuke smirked, turning his attention back to Sango. “We will bring Naraku to justice,” he promised her. “We have the evidence to convict him for your brother’s disappearance and death.” His smile turned lofty. “Just be aware of the fact that our prosecutors don’t bring a case before the panel of judges unless they _know_ they can win.”

“Fine,” Sango nodded, her arm brushing against Miroku’s, even as she kept her gaze firmly on her ex. “My family is forever in your debt, Mr. Takeda,” she added evenly, finding and clasping Miroku’s hand, “but I am not the payment for that debt.”

Karanousuke’s eyes drifted downward, his gaze lingering on their joined hands, and for a moment, Sango wondered if he would cry. Instead, he raised his head once more, a defeated smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as his eyes found hers. She looked up at him, waiting, watching for the moment when it finally dawned on him that she was gone – and that, no matter what he did, she was never coming back.

Such understanding never blossomed across his features.

Instead, Karanousuke leaned forward, pressing a feathery-light kiss in the middle of her forehead. “I’ll see you inside,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow as he turned away.

Sango watched him retreat, frustration washing through her at his willful ignorance. _He’s never going to stop trying_ , she realized. _He’s never going to let go._

“Are you okay?” Miroku murmured, folding her into a warm embrace, resting his head on top of hers.

She curled against him, squeezing her eyes shut as tears trickled from the corners of her eyes once more. “Yes,” she whispered in response, even though she felt anything but.

~*~

She couldn’t sleep.

Sango lay still in the darkness of the night, listening idly to the hum of the city at night. She’d lived in Tokyo for three years but had never been aware of the endless sounds that peppered the evening air –traffic rushing by on a nearby street; drunks wandering in the alleyways, fighting over women and booze and drugs; night-shifters forever entering and leaving their buildings of residence and work. Every now and then a plane would circle overhead, its lights flickering beneath the low drone of the engines.

She opened her eyes, glancing around the modest little room as her vision adjusted in the darkness. It was sparsely furnished – a desk, a chair, a TV resting on the top of an ancient-looking bookcase, itself filled to the brim with thick hardback reference books and stacks of secondhand paperbacks. The mattress on which she lay was mere inches from the floor; the blankets that covered her were thin and worn to softness.

It was nothing like the luxurious suite she’d once called home – and yet, it _felt_ more like home than that gilded cage ever had.

She sighed softly, pushing the covers back and sitting up, casting a long look over her shoulder as she did so. Miroku lay in the shadows behind her on the narrow bed, tangled in the sheets and blankets, his body oriented towards her, even as he slept. For a long moment, she simply gazed at him, following the even rise and fall of his chest, allowing her eyes to trace the lines of his features before roving down over territory her hands were already familiar with. She reached out, sweeping her fingers through the hair at his brow, relishing the heat and pleasure that rippled through her at the intimate touch. 

She was satisfied, she realized in that moment, but she wasn’t happy.

She turned away, burying her face in her hands as tears welled behind her eyes. So many of the events that had happened that day were supposed to give her a sense of triumph – she’d faced down the man responsible for taking her brother’s life; she’d pulled out of her ex-fiancé’s reach, even flaunting her choice of his rival over him; she’d reunited with her best friend…and Miroku, whom she thought she’d lost forever. These things should’ve rocketed her into the stratosphere, or at least made her feel less broken – but they felt cheap and hollow instead.

 _What’s wrong with me?_ Sango asked herself silently, her breath hitching in her chest. _Why do I still feel like a failure?_

Behind her, Miroku stirred. “Sango,” he murmured, brushing his fingers against her bare hip.

“I can’t sleep,” she choked out, pressing the heels of her hands against her cheekbones, trying valiantly to keep her tears at bay.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly, the sheets rustling as he sat up in bed.

“No,” she returned quietly.

She felt his arms encircle her waist, drawing her close as he leaned forward, the solid wall of his chest warm against her back. He pressed a feathery-light kiss to the nape of her neck before allowing his mouth to trail along the line of her shoulder, each gentle caress of his lips conveying some small measure of comfort. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her skin.

She swallowed hard, lowering her hands from her face. “For what?”

He was silent for a moment, one hand leaving her torso, and she exhaled sharply when she felt his fingers tracing the lines of the star-shaped scar that bloomed across her back. “For everything you’ve been through,” he replied somberly, reverently, “and for everything you’re still going through.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss near the apex of the wound before hugging her close, resting his head on her shoulder. “You didn’t deserve this.”

Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. “What I don’t deserve is you,” she returned in a strangled voice, the raw, aching pain of her guilt overwhelming her, making it very hard for her to breathe, much less speak.

He tightened the brace of his arms around her waist. “Don’t say that,” he chided gently. “Stop punishing yourself for the choices you’ve made – they weren’t _all_ mistakes, were they?”

She laid her arms over his, lacing her fingers through his over her abdomen, concentrating on the sensations of heat and want that swirled just below his intimate touch. “No,” she admitted. “Meeting you was not a mistake…” She trailed off, biting her lips in a vain attempt to stop her chin from quivering. “I just wish it hadn’t happened like this.”

“I’m glad it happened at all,” Miroku informed her. When she glanced back at him, her eyes wide and watery, he smiled. “We can’t change the past – we can only move forward, towards the future.” 

She turned to face him fully then, her hands settling at his shoulders as her eyes searched his. “’We’?” she queried carefully, her heart beating painfully in her chest.

His hands drifted up the planes of her back, one cradling gently over her scar while the other continued on, finding her shoulder, her neck, the side of her face. “We,” he repeated solemnly, brushing his thumb along the crest of her cheek. “I love you, Sango.”

Something shifted within her then, two halves of a whole mending together, relieving her heart of its arduous burden. Waves of want and need and desire and love cascaded through her as she stared into his eyes, accepting the plain promise reflected there. “I could never make you happy,” she sighed wistfully, her hands curling around his neck. “I can’t even let myself be happy.”

He drew her closer to him, lifting her hips astride his. “Happiness is just an illusion,” he told her softly, his mouth inching closer to hers. “And I don’t need illusions when reality is so much sweeter.”

- _fin_ -


End file.
